


Took For Granted

by underwaterattribute



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Geralt learns to play the lute, Geralt learns to respect Jaskier, Get Together, I know nothing about lutes or how to play them, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Sick Fic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Sort Of, Whump, and then falls in love, so wikipedia was my friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underwaterattribute/pseuds/underwaterattribute
Summary: Geralt had never thought too much about what Jaskier did for a living, never believed it worth considering, but when Jaskier is cursed and loses the use of his hands for as long as the curse lasts, he offers to play the lute for him so that Jaskier can still perform. How hard could it be to learn to play, anyway?In learning the lute, Geralt also learns more about Jaskier, and realises he has never truly seen him, and now that Geralt sees him clearly, realises how much he threw away before he ever truly realised he had it. Because Jaskier may have forgiven him for what he said on the mountain, but there was no way that after that Jaskier could ever see him as anything other than an old friend.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 414





	1. Unconscious Incompetence

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a big thank you to [SassyTeaSnob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyTeaSnob/pseuds/SassyTeaSnob), who cheerleaded me through this fic, and helped me every time I got stuck, and thanks to [Jueru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jueru/pseuds/Jueru)and Kari from the Geraskier discord, for help with the title. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/618017726313660416/i-have-this-whole-headcanon-about-jaskier-burning) fan art I saw on Tumblr. It ended up diverging pretty far from that starting point, but this is where the idea came from.
> 
> This fic is complete, except for the epilogue. I plan to post once a week.

The mage’s chant broke off with a choke when Geralt’s sword abruptly emerged through the front of her throat, Geralt himself standing behind her, still breathing hard, and bloody from wounds to his head and arm. 

Jaskier, crouched in front of Ciri, and directly in the path of whatever spell she had been casting, let out a whoosh of breath when the dark red sparks touched only his hands, raised defensively, hopelessly, in front of himself. He knew that he was only useful as a defence against a mage as a human shield, and if necessary, he would throw himself in front of Ciri with no regrets, but he was relieved that it hadn’t come to that. 

“Melitele, but that was close. If you had been half a second slower, Geralt, who knows what that spell would have done.” Danger seemingly past, Jaskier started prattling on without hesitation. 

Jaskier went to put his small dagger away, trying to slide it into the sheath in his boot, and fumbling it.

Geralt noticed absently, most of his attention still on making sure there were no more threats in the immediate vicinity. Nothing moved, and he turned his attention back towards Jaskier and Ciri. “Are you hurt?”

Ciri started pushing her way past Jaskier, out of the corner he had pushed her into, “I’m fine. Some grazes on my palms from when I fell, but nothing worse than that.”

Jaskier, however, was looking down at his hands, dagger on the ground next to his boot. “Geralt,” He said, voice a half octave higher than usual, “Geralt, something is wrong.”

Geralt sent him a sharp look. “What?” Who knew what the witch had been trying to do when he had killed her, and with the spell half complete, it was even more unpredictable. 

Jaskier swallowed heavily, “I can’t move my fingers.”

Ciri was watching with wide eyes, and clutched onto the side of Jaskier’s doublet. Geralt strode over and grabbed Jaskier’s closest hand, and started manipulating his fingers. Still flexible, Geralt was still able to move them, the spell hadn’t transformed them into some other material, that was something. He prodded at Jaskier’s fingers some more and asked, “Can you feel this?”

Jaskier nodded shakily. “I can’t move them.” His voice was getting higher, more panicked.

Geralt nodded, and rubbed slightly at his hands, “Bend your hands back for me a little, so I can get a look at a different angle.”

Jaskier started shaking, although notably, not in his hands, “I can’t.” His voice was truly panicked now. “Geralt, I can’t move my hands.” The arm Geralt wasn’t holding twitched slightly. “I can’t move my elbows either.” He swallowed hard. 

Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hand reassuringly. “Ciri, go out to where we left Roach. Get the xenovox from the saddlebags. We might need Yenn.”

Ciri nodded woodenly, and ran out of the room, hair streaming behind her.

“We’ll get it sorted, Jaskier, Yen will be able to fix it.” Geralt spoke lowly, reassuringly, trying to put as much confidence in his voice as he could muster, rubbing his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms. 

Jaskier nodded shakily. His eyebrows creased slightly, and then his eyes, already wide with fright, went wider, almost bulging, and his mouth gaped. He looked up at Geralt, mouth working, but no sound coming out, terror writ on his face. Geralt noticed that his chest had stopped its unconscious, rhythmic, rise and fall. He took a small step, just far enough to lean his weight against Geralt’s chest, and, with a surreal clarity, Geralt noted that his lips were beginning to turn blue. 

Geralt cursed, loudly, and not particularly creatively, and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s unmoving torso, slowly lowering him to the stone floor. Geralt wished he could go back and kill the mage again, wished for _something_ he could do. They had barely begun to settle back into something like normalcy after Geralt had forced out an apology for what he had said after the dragon hunt, and he was not ready to go back to the strange silence that had been left behind when Jaskier had left. 

Just as Jaskier’s eyes started to roll up into his head, Geralt heard the rush of a portal behind him, and Yenn stepped in. He absently noted that the dress she was wearing was much simpler and looser than her usual. Ciri’s call must have caught her while she was resting, then. She spent much of her time resting, since the battle of Sodden Hill, her strength returning slowly. Her violet eyes scanned the scene and she snapped, “You’re going to have to breathe for him, you idiot, he can’t do it for himself.”

Geralt looked up at her helplessly, “How?”

She already had her fingers angled in the distinctive way she sometimes held her hands when casting, and she rolled her eyes as she briskly said, “Pinch his nose closed, and breathe into his mouth. And be grateful that the body fights these kinds of spells so much when they try to stop the heart, or he’d be already dead.”

Geralt turned back to Jaskier and did as Yennefer had instructed, sending a prayer out to whichever of the gods would listen that the delay had not caused Jaskier any harm. As he kneeled over Jaskier and breathed as steadily into his lungs as he could, he couldn’t help but think of how unnatural it was that the usually so animated Jaskier was so quiet. He was so still, his lips entirely slack. 

As Yennefer chanted, Jaskier’s eyes slowly fluttered a little, and he tried to turn his head away. Geralt stopped breathing into his mouth, thinking that Yennefer’s spell must have worked, but, without pausing even slightly, she kicked him, and he resumed his task. Jaskier’s eyes opened a little, and a furrow appeared in his brow. He turned his head away again, and Geralt held him in place, pausing only long enough to growl out, “Let me help you breathe.” He didn’t know if Jaskier had understood, or was simply too weak to continue to pull away. It didn’t matter, ultimately, but Geralt’s gut twisted at the thought of his actions causing Jaskier even more fright, but better frightened than dead. He could be angry with Geralt later, when he could breathe by himself, when the curse was lifted. 

Finally, Jaskier took a deep breath on his own, and Geralt almost sobbed with relief. He put his head down on Jaskier’s chest, hair obscuring his face. He spent a moment reveling in the glorious sound and feel of Jaskier’s chest rising and falling on its own. He looked up in time to see Ciri cushioning Yennefer’s fall to the floor. 

“I may have overextended myself a little.” She admitted, “But the curse won’t continue to spread, and the bard will be able to breathe on his own.” Her eyes slipped shut. “I need to sleep for a while, I think.” She murmured, and went to sleep right there on the floor.

Ciri fussed a little, moving her limbs into more comfortable positions, then whispered, “She’s just sleeping. Do you think she’ll be alright? Is Jaskier going to be alright?” Her eyes were filling with tears, her lip shaking. 

Geralt nodded, if Yennefer said she was just going to sleep then he had no reason to disbelieve her, although there was no way to truly know about Jaskier until he woke up. No reason to worry Ciri unnecessarily. She threw himself into his arms and buried herself in his chest. After a long moment she pulled back and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Ciri went back over to Yennefer and twitched her skirts into a neater arrangement. “We should get them comfortable.”

Geralt nodded, and looked around at the shattered and bloodstained furniture of the room they were in. “There has to be a room that the mage slept in. We’ll set them up in there.” 

***

Jaskier woke to a pounding headache. He could feel the familiar fabric of his bedroll, but the surface it was on was strangely free of rocks or twigs, almost as though he was on a floor instead of the ground. He thought back, trying to remember who he had been drinking with to end up back in his own bedroll by himself. When he failed to shade his eyes from the light he felt his stomach swoop. He remembered uncharacteristically fumbling with the dagger, and realising his fingers weren’t responding at all, and then the terror of not being able to draw breath, not even being able to scream, or reach for help. Swallowing heavily, he tried to sit up, and found his arms still entirely unresponsive. He closed his eyes and held back the urge to weep. After a moment gathering himself, he opened them again and looked around the room he was in. 

There was a small fireplace in plain stone walls and no adornments save for a small window, facing out towards the trees. The only furniture was a chest at the foot of a bed, where Yennefer was sleeping soundly. He thought somewhat sourly that it was entirely unfair that she looked positively angelic while so soundly asleep and felt only the slightest pang of guilt for the thought. She had saved him, after all, from a rather awful death, and had exhausted herself in doing so. 

He could hear Ciri’s high voice exchanging words with Geralt’s low one, but the sound was too muffled through the wall to understand the words. There was also the sound of heavy objects crashing to the ground outside, possibly they were clearing out the chairs and table that had been shattered in the battle with the mage. 

As abrupt and gruesome as her death had been, Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to feel badly for her. Geralt had been gone in search of the leshy he had been hired to rid the forest of for nearly an entire day, when without any warning, she had appeared from the trees and cast some kind of spell that had left Jaskier dizzy and disoriented, while she had dragged Ciri, protesting, away. Jaskier had no where near the kind of skills Geralt had when it came to tracking, but he wasn’t entirely incompetent, and Ciri had gone out of her way to leave a clear trail. Even as foggy as he had been, Jaskier was able to follow the trail after a few minutes to collect himself. 

He had followed until they came to a small, stone hunting lodge, where Ciri was making it as difficult as possible for the mage to get her through the door. Jaskier called to her, “Wait! Surely we can come to some sort of agreement. We don’t have much, but what use is a girl to you?”

The mage had looked at him with mild surprise, still holding a struggling Ciri, “Curious. That spell should have left you unconscious. And we both know she is no simple girl. Nilfgaard is coming, and there is no stopping them, but if I present them with the Lion Cub of Cintra I may at least survive.”

As the mage spoke, Jaskier had been slowly easing forward, but he froze at that. If the mage knew who Ciri was, it would be much harder to bargain his way out of this. Unfortunately, the surprise had distracted Ciri, and the mage had managed to haul her into the lodge. Jaskier scrambled to follow, although he had no idea what he planned to do if he managed to get inside. Fortunately for Jaskier, that was when Geralt must have returned from his hunt and found them gone, for he limped into the clearing, favouring one leg, and already injured. Geralt had wrenched the hinges off the door and slammed inside. Jaskier quickly followed and darted over to Ciri, pushing her into a corner. The fight had been mercifully short, but, in her desperation, the mage had blasted her own dining set into firewood, before Geralt had managed to slip behind her and finish it. 

Jaskier was very carefully not thinking about not being able to move his arms. If he did, he would not be able to hold it together, and he very much needed to hold it together. He took deep, steady breaths. Yennefer would wake up, and she would say some incomprehensible spells, and smirk at him, and everything would go back to normal. That was what would happen. Because the alternative did not bear thinking about. 

Jaskier lay there for at least an hour, thinking of the lyrics for his latest song, and staring up at the spider webs near the ceiling. Had that mage never cleaned up there? Finally, Ciri peeked around the door, and beamed when she saw he was awake.

“You should have called out when you woke up!” She scolded as she came over to sit on the floor between Jaskier and Yennefer. “How are you feeling? Geralt said you might have a headache when you woke.”

Jaskier mustered up a smile that must have been convincing enough, and answered, “Yes, I do have a bit of a headache. It’ll pass, I’m sure.”

Ciri bit her lip and said, “I’m glad you’re alright. If you had-” She cut herself off. “It would be my fault if you weren’t alright. You were saving me.”

Jaskier painstakingly hauled himself upright without the use of his arms, and said, “Ciri, even if something had happened, and I wasn’t okay, it wouldn’t be your fault. It would have been her fault, for taking you, for cursing me.”

“But-” Ciri started.

Jaskier interrupted. “No. It would have been _her_ fault. Her choices. Not yours.”

Ciri nodded, but didn’t look convinced. 

Yennefer stirred a little in her sleep, and Ciri looked hopeful, but she did not wake. To distract her, Jaskier struck up a conversation about the market at the last town they had stopped at, and kept her occupied until Geralt came in, precariously carrying three bowls of warm food. Ciri eagerly reached for hers, and Geralt held a bowl out for Jaskier, who gave him a somewhat annoyed look. He didn’t want to actually _say_ anything about his arms, some superstitious part of him loathe to give voice to the problem, as though not saying anything made it not true. 

Ciri made an upset noise. “You haven’t been moving your hands. You usually move your hands around when you talk. How did I not notice?”

“I didn’t want you to. I’m sure it’s just taking a while for the curse to leave my arms.” Jaskier reassured her, but wasn’t relishing the prospect of going hungry for now.

Ciri put down her bowl and reached to take Jaskier’s from Geralt, who was still standing in the doorway, watching with a troubled look on his face. 

When she brought the bowl over and held a spoonful of the stew up to his mouth, Jaskier objected. “No, really, it’s fine. Eat your dinner. You’ve had a big day.”

Ciri glared at him. “What are you going to do? Eat from a bowl on the floor like a dog?”

Jaskier cringed, but didn’t back down. The last thing he wanted was to be spoon fed by a child who hadn’t even eaten her own dinner. “No, really, I’m fine. Not even hungry. You eat your dinner.”

Geralt grunted and ended the standoff by stepping forward and taking the bowl and spoon from Ciri. Jaskier opened his mouth to thank Geralt, but Geralt took advantage of that to shove the spoon in with a large chunk of meat on it. Jaskier chewed angrily, glaring at him. Being spoon fed by Geralt wasn’t really an improvement. Ciri, however, giggled, and picked her own bowl up again. 

Geralt settled on the floor next to him and alternated between shovelling food into his own mouth and into Jaskier’s. Mercifully, he didn’t comment, and allowed Jaskier what dignity he could. By the time the food was gone the sun had gone down entirely, setting quickly even late in Summer. Geralt gathered up the bowls and spoons to wash up while Ciri started setting up her and Geralt’s bedrolls, in the little floor space left in the bedroom. 

While she was working Jaskier struggled to his feet and made his way out to the main room, which, as he had guessed, had been swept of the remains of the furniture and bloodstained rug, as well as the mage’s body. It had taken him some time to lever himself upright, and Geralt was setting aside the bowls already when Jaskier asked if there was an outhouse nearby. Geralt nodded, and walked outside with him.

When they reached the outhouse, Geralt did not immediately leave. Jaskier waited a moment, then turned to him and said,“Yes, alright, I think I can manage from here.”

Geralt crossed his arms. “Alright. Open the door then.”

Jaskier looked at the closed door of the outhouse and sighed, leaning his head on it. Of course. “Bollocks.” He couldn’t even get _in_ to the outhouse. There was no hope that he would be able to deal with his trousers by himself. Face flushed with humiliation, Jaskier kept his eyes averted and asked, “Could you…” He trailed off. Couldn’t bring himself to finish the request. This was not how he imagined Geralt taking his pants off would go. To be honest, he hadn’t imagined that it would ever happen at all, but this was very far from what he would picture when he got some uninterrupted time alone. 

Geralt helped him perform the necessary actions then left, presumably to let Jaskier gather what was left of his ego, unobserved. 

When he got back to the bedroom, Ciri had finished laying out the bedrolls and had already slipped into her own, placed on the floor next to the bed Yennefer was still sleeping on, with Geralt’s bedroll on the other side of her, and Jaskier’s next to that. She had built a small fire in the fireplace and the autumn chill had already mostly left the room. Jaskier let himself ungracefully slump onto his bedroll and was tired enough to fall asleep where he was, without pulling his blanket over himself. 

***

When Geralt returned from checking the traps he had set the day before, carrying a few rabbits that had been caught, Yennefer had finally woken up. As far as he could tell she had slept from when she had collapsed the day before and right through the night without stirring once. When he entered the lodge she was coaxing the fire in the hearth back to life and looked up at him as he opened the door. 

“Oh good. Breakfast. I’m starving.” It took her longer than she would usually take to stand, but he did not move to assist her. For all that they had reconciled somewhat in the face of Yennefer’s desire to teach and raise Ciri, things were still strained between them, and he did not think she would welcome his help. 

Geralt skinned and butchered the rabbits, while Yennefer pulled out vegetables from a pantry, and used them to start a stew. Geralt didn’t object when she took the first rabbit he had butchered to add to it.

As they worked, Yennefer said, “I didn’t have a chance to check if I broke that curse entirely. She wasn’t overly powerful, but she cast it as she died, and that makes a difference.”

“He still couldn’t move his arms last night.” Geralt told her.

“If I can find the right materials, I can remove it, but it will take time, and he should avoid other magic as much as he can while it breaks.” Yennefer said.

Geralt hesitated. He hated to put more on Yennefer after all she had done to help them already, and while she was still so weak, but Ciri’s needs came first. Slowly, he said, “You should probably take Ciri with you when you go, then. She doesn’t need to be stuck here while Jaskier recovers.”

Yennefer huffed a little, “Or you could leave the bard at the nearest town. Ivalo, isn’t it?”

“Yenn,” Geralt said, reproving, “I can’t just abandon him after what he did for Ciri.”

Yennefer sighed. “No, you couldn’t, could you. I suppose, if you’re going to stay with him, then Ciri should come with me.”

The smell must have woken Ciri and Jaskier, and by the time they were nearly ready to eat they had both stumbled out of the bedroom, Ciri unselfconsciously rubbing at her eyes and yawning. Jaskier, Geralt noted, still had his arms hanging limply by his sides. 

Geralt’s gut twisted. If he had been protecting Ciri like he should have been, Jaskier would never have been cursed. What Jaskier had thought he was going to accomplish by following the mage was a mystery to Geralt. Although, he supposed Jaskier had managed to delay her, and that had possibly been the only thing that prevented the mage from having contacted the Nilfgaardians, so it wasn’t entirely a wasted effort. 

Ciri went straight to Yennefer and snuggled down next to where she was sitting at the fire, adding something to the stew she had started. Yennefer absently smoothed a hand down Ciri’s hair and they started talking quietly between themselves. Geralt couldn’t deny that he had been wrong about the kind of mother Yennefer would make. 

Jaskier, meanwhile, was standing awkwardly by the door, and shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. Geralt didn’t make him ask for the help he knew Jaskier needed. It was his fault that Jaskier needed the help in the first place. As awkward as it was, especially with things still tentative between them after Geralt’s apology, it would be worse if Geralt forced Jaskier to ask for the help. 

With Jaskier’s usual morning routine dealt with, they returned to the main room together and sat down on the floor to eat. Ciri had clearly been observing the night before, and rather than attempting to feed Jaskier the way she had previously, she made an attempt to act as though it were a game. Geralt could tell that Jaskier wasn’t taken in by it, but played along, most likely for the sake of his own dignity, as well as Ciri’s feelings. 

Yennefer finished her meal before anyone else, and went to rummage through the mage’s effects, searching for who knew what. Ciri cheerfully kept up a conversation between all four of them, making an effort to be sure everyone was included. She had clearly missed Yennefer, and Geralt felt a stab of guilt for how long it had been since she had seen her. He could have kept their travels closer to Aretuza. 

Jaskier was telling a story about a noblewoman who had offended him somehow, “So, while I was in the stables, seeing a much more pleasant young woman, I spotted a particularly slow mouse. Clearly pregnant. And, you know,” he laughed, “It wasn’t all that hard to sneak just one tiny mouse into the chest she stored her under-things in.”

Ciri clapped a hand over her mouth. “I heard about that! They were all ruined. So many holes in them that she had to give them away to be turned into rags. She never did figure out how the family of mice got in there.”

Jaskier bobbed his head with a grin, “I’m so glad to hear the story went-”

Yennefer cut off Jaskier with a cry of triumph, and came out of the store cupboard clutching something in her fist. “This will do the trick!”

“What for?” Ciri asked curiously.

“I can’t break that curse in one go,” Yennefer waved a hand at Jaskier, “Not now that it has been there for more than an hour. But I can enchant this to slowly break down the magic.” She waved what Geralt now saw was a small, silver pendant at Jaskier. 

Jaskier looked away from Yennefer, but in doing so faced more towards Geralt, and he saw the look of utter relief on his face. He must not have been sure the curse could be broken, then. 

Yennefer continued, either oblivious to Jaskier’s emotions, or not caring, “You’ll have to wear this until the curse is entirely broken, next to your skin, and I don’t know how long it will take, but it will get there eventually.”

Ciri beamed at Yennefer and Jaskier from her place on the floor. 

Yennefer continued, “I’ll enchant it today, and tomorrow Ciri and I will go to Aretuza. I don’t want Tissaia to have to come looking for me.”

Ciri bounced a little and said to Yennefer, “You can show us all your favourite places there!”

Yennefer shook her head and said, “I’ll be happy to show you my favourite places, but Geralt and Jaskier aren’t coming with us, love.”

Ciri looked crestfallen, “Why not? I know you and Jaskier don’t really get along, but you wouldn’t have to spend all your time together.” 

Geralt took over, not wanting to make Yennefer be the only one to have to disappoint Ciri, “The extra magic would interfere with breaking the curse.”

Ciri looked a little betrayed, “You already decided, without me.”

“It’s their job to take care of you,” Jaskier intervened, “Of course they talked about what they thought would be best for you.”

Geralt let out a breath he was holding when Jaskier spoke; he had not been looking forward to having that argument with Ciri. For all she had been through more than any child should, she was still a child, and shouldn’t have to worry about taking care of the adults around her.

Jaskier continued, “And I’m sure Yennefer will be able to teach you all sorts of things about magic once you are there, it’s where she learned, after all.”

Yennefer came to sit back down next to Ciri, “Yes, I will. You will _not_ be learning the way I learned, however, no matter what Tissaia has to say about it.”

By the afternoon, Yennefer had found several other items in the mage’s store cupboard, and before dinner did something complicated looking with them and the pendant, that resulted in a brief, eye searing yellow glow. She passed it to Ciri while she went to get her food.

Ciri held up the pendant and Geralt saw that it was a circle with a simple tree engraved on it. She took it over to Jaskier and fastened it around his neck, leaning forward to tuck it under his shirt. As she did, he turned to try to look at it, and his cheek brushed hers. Ciri shrieked and fell backwards, “Jaskier! You’re all scratchy!”

He laughed and shrugged, “I haven’t been able to shave, and I suppose it’s catching up to me.”

Geralt grunted. “We’ll take care of it tomorrow. It’s got to be making you itchy.”

Jaskier rubbed his cheek futilely on his shoulder, “It is, that. Still, you don’t have to. I’m told the itching goes away eventually.”

***

It was somewhat of a relief when Yennefer and Ciri disappeared through a portal the next evening, leaving Jaskier with less of an audience for his struggles to do, oh, anything at all. 

Jaskier would rather pretend the the outhouse, and everything that goes on therein, did not exist, and Geralt didn’t seem to have any objections to that. He knew that Geralt didn’t feel the same way about him as he did about Geralt, but it was still somewhat of a kick in the teeth to have to rely on him for such a basic task. He had thought that he had managed to squash any daydreams of Geralt one day returning his feelings after the dragon hunt, but apparently some part of him had still been holding out hope.

What Jaskier hadn’t taken into account when he thought of Ciri and Yennefer leaving was that there were now no distractions, for himself or for Geralt. Every time Geralt left to check his traps or feed Roach, Jaskier was left alone, with nothing to do. No one to talk to, no way to write or play music, just the four walls to look at. And having Yennefer there all the time was not as bad as it might have been, once. She and Geralt had come to a sort of truce, and were able to be perfectly civil, now that they had Ciri’s welfare to unite them. It had hurt to watch them, before, and not just because he had enough emotional intelligence to know that he was jealous. The emotional ups and downs had been exhausting to witness, and he couldn’t imagine what they must have been like for Geralt, with the difficulties he had with any emotions at all. Things between her and Geralt were more awkward now, yes, and that was its own kind of difficult to endure, but they no longer unwittingly and unwillingly tore into each other. Ciri, of course, was almost always refreshing to be around, beginnings of teenage angst notwithstanding. So, all things considered, it might have been easier to manage, had they stayed. 

Another awkward conversation that they might have avoided if Ciri and Yennefer had stayed was the argument over who slept in the bed. Initially Geralt had tried to give it to Jaskier entirely. 

“It’s difficult for you to get up off the floor. I’ve watched you in the mornings. It only makes sense for you to sleep in the bed.” Geralt insisted. 

Jaskier clenched his jaw, “So you should sleep on the floor every night just so I can get up a bit more quickly in the morning? I’m _not_ entirely helpless, Geralt. I can manage to stand.”

Clearly seeing that Jaskier was not going to give in easily, Geralt conceded ungracefully, and they agreed to trade off on who slept in the bed.

Two days after Ciri and Yennefer had left, Geralt returned from checking on Roach, and with the breeze pushing the smell in front of him, Jaskier exclaimed, “Melitele’s tits but you are rank. When was the last time you bathed?”

Geralt regarded him with a raised eyebrow, and asked, “When’s the last time you did? You’re not exactly living up to your name, yourself.”

Jaskier flushed. To be honest, he _wasn’t_ feeling the freshest, but it wasn’t like there was much he could do about it on his own, and he wasn’t in a hurry to ask Geralt for help with it, either. Jaskier had managed to put him off about shaving, but he really did need a bath. 

It took less time than Jaskier would have thought for Geralt to fetch the tub from the storage shed out the back of the lodge and fill it with water that was, if not as warm as he would have liked, at least not cold. 

Once the tub was filled, Geralt warmed a smaller bucket of water, and stipped himself down to begin washing. Jaskier sat near the fire in the hearth and watched the trees sway out the one small window. 

“If I smell so bad that you noticed from all the way over there, it’s probably best that I’m clean before I start washing you.” Geralt explained.

It wasn’t lost on Jaskier that Geralt had also laid himself vulnerable, in much the same way that Jaskier was going to have to be, soon. Something twisted in Jaskier’s chest. For all Geralt would be the first to claim he was heartless, he was always doing things like that. Small, rough kindnesses, that many would not even think of, or notice. Jaskier knew that if he brought attention to it, Geralt would deny why he did it, but he did such things with far too much regularity for it to be an accident. When one ignored what the surly witcher _said_ and paid attention to what he _did_ , a very different picture was painted. It would be easier on Jaskier’s heart if Geralt were more like he professed to be. Much easier not to have fallen in love with the bastard. 

Soon enough, Geralt had washed away the filth of the last few days, and turned to Jaskier. “I’ll scrub off the worst of it, and then you can soak in the tub for a while.”

Jaskier stood, resigned to getting something he had desperately wanted for so long, in a way far removed from how he had wanted it. Geralt was business-like as he lifted Jaskier’s shirt and maneuvered his arms out of it’s sleeves, but Jaskier felt his face burn, nonetheless. Geralt tossed Jaskier’s shirt on top of the pile he had made of his own clothes, and crouched down to pick at the bow at the back of his trousers that held them up. Jaskier sucked in a shuddering breath, and stepped out of the trousers once Geralt had loosened them. 

Geralt snagged a clean cloth and dunked it in the still warm water before running it over Jaskier’s skin, without any hesitation or lingering. Jaskier thought miserably that at least his humiliation was complete enough to avoid any reactions that would be unpleasant to try to explain. 

Finally Jaskier was clean and he stepped hastily into the waiting tub, even though he knew the water to be lukewarm at best. The only upside to not being able to do anything until this fucking curse was lifted was that he was not going to be getting dirty enough to really require a bath every day, although Geralt really ought to. Not that he would, but that was nothing new. While he soaked, Geralt dressed himself in clean clothing and went back outside to do goodness only knew what, leaving Jaskier in peace. 

When Geralt returned, Jaskier climbed out of the now cold tub, and Geralt dried him perfunctory before dressing him again. Jaskier made a quip about Geralt being a good manservant, but his heart wasn’t in it, and Geralt barely reacted, so he let it go. 

The next few days passed like those before, with Jaskier becoming more and more frustrated with his inability to _do_ anything. It was only midmorning, and Jaskier was restless, agitated, roaming the lodge and finding nothing to do, not even anyone to talk to. He knew it would be foolish to leave, to go to Ivalo in the north, or Visima in the south, he had no way of earning any coin, and it would swiftly run out in a town or city. There was no good reason to leave a place where they had shelter, and where there was a stockpile of food and Geralt could hunt in the forest for fresh meat with ease, but Jaskier was desperate for distractions. 

When Geralt finally returned, Jaskier turned on him, “Good to see you haven’t forgotten me here.” Immediately he felt shame wash over him. What else was Geralt to do? He could hardly stay cooped up just because Jaskier couldn’t do anything, and Geralt had been taking care of him without complaint for days. “I’m sorry. I just-” Jaskier kicked at the log that Geralt had dragged inside to prepare food on. “-There’s nothing for me to _do_. I know I’m hardly as physically competent as you even on your worst day, but I’m sure you can understand how utterly humiliating it is to be entirely helpless. And I’m bored. I am so bored, Geralt, you have no idea. I don’t even have my music to keep me occupied.”

“Hm.” Geralt paused, as though thinking, and strode over to where he had placed the saddle bags in the corner of the main room. He pulled out Jaskier’s lute, in it’s hard case, and brought it over. “Teach me.” 


	2. Conscious Incompetence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing the epilogue to this fic, so have the next chapter in celebration.

Jaskier stared at Geralt for long enough for him to begin to feel awkward, and eventually he let the arm holding the lute drop. “You can’t play. But you can still sing. So if you teach me, you could perform.” The solution made perfect sense to Geralt. How hard could it be to play the lute? He had spent decades watching Jaskier play as he sang and danced and flirted with his audience, often all at the same time. Although, Jaskier flirted like he breathed, so perhaps that didn’t count. 

Eventually, Jaskier inclined his head and sat down near the hearth. “Alright then, let’s get started.” When Geralt hesitated, he added, “Unless you have some urgent business to attend to?”

Geralt shrugged and sat down next to him, pulling the lute out of its case. He held it across his body the way Jaskier always did, and idly ran his fingers over the strings. He frowned at the discordant sound that resulted, nothing like the sounds that Jaskier always produced so effortlessly. 

Jaskier cringed at it, and said, “Right, first lesson. Tuning. You’re going to start with the lowest string, and pluck it to listen to the sound.”

Geralt did, and it sounded like a lute string to him, but Jaskier frowned. “The string is too loose. You’re going to have to tighten the peg until it plays the right note.”

Geralt followed the string up to the top part of the instrument and hesitantly touched one of the protruding pieces of wood. Jaskier nodded, and Geralt twisted it slightly. When he plucked the string again, he noticed that the sound was different, but had no idea if the sound was better or worse. 

Jaskier was remarkably patient as he talked Geralt through tuning the lute. Geralt knew he wasn’t anywhere near as patient with Ciri when he was teaching her. He didn’t seem to be bothered by having to give the same instruction more than once, or to have to go back and explain them in a different way. 

Teaching Geralt seemed to help Jaskier, in fact. He had been becoming more and more snappish and agitated as the days had passed, and talking about something he was an authority on seemed to settle him. Geralt supposed he couldn’t fault the man for lashing out; he didn’t think he would handle being so dependent nearly as gracefully. The only person around for Jaskier to take his frustration out on was Geralt, who, even though he was helping, had no room to criticise Jaskier for lashing out at the wrong person. Jaskier’s misery every time he had to use the outhouse was obvious, and even that was overshadowed by how clearly despairing he had been the one time so far that Geralt had bathed him, and neither of them particularly wanted to deal with the scruff on Jaskier’s face that was rapidly becoming a full beard.

While Geralt was perfectly content to spend his days talking only to his friend and Roach, Jaskier was much more social. He needed people in a way that Geralt didn’t. Hopefully Geralt learning to play the lute would present a solution to that. If Jaskier was able to perform, he would be able to earn some coin, and they would be able to make at least brief trips to more populated areas. 

It took longer than Geralt had thought it would for Jaskier to talk him through tuning the lute. Much longer than it ever took Jaskier by himself. Geralt supposed that it was hardly reasonable to expect he would be able to do it as quickly as someone who had been doing it for years, but he was still somewhat disgruntled. By the time they were done, there wasn’t even enough time for Jaskier to start teaching him how to play, because the sun was so high in the sky that Geralt had to set it aside to check the snares and then begin preparing the evening meal.

That evening, after dinner was eaten and the mess cleared away, Geralt settled back down with the lute, with Jaskier in front of him, and Geralt thought they would begin playing right away. Instead, Jaskier made him check that the strings were still tuned, and to his surprise some of them needed to be adjusted, although Geralt still could not hear the difference.

Jaskier talked him through positioning his hands on what he learned was called the fret to create chords. While the resulting configuration looked the way Geralt had seen Jaskier hold his lute, he found that the way it required him to position his fingers felt quite unnatural and strained his hand more than he would have thought. Finally he had his fingers positioned to Jaskier’s satisfaction and he was able to strum a chord. This time, instead of the awful noise he had created that morning, it sounded actually musical. Geralt glanced up at Jaskier with a smile when he produced the sound, and found him beaming back at him. 

After a few more strums, Geralt found that his hand was beginning to cramp, and had to release the strings. When he stretched out his fingers, he saw that the strings had bitten deep lines into his fingertips. 

Jaskier gave him a moment, then leaned forward and said, “Now try to put your fingers back where they were.”

Geralt frowned as he found that he struggled to put each finger back in quite the right spot, and this time when he strummed at the lute, the sound was not quite right. 

Jaskier nodded, and patiently corrected where his fingers were placed, “Move your ring finger a touch closer to the body of the lute. Yes, that’s it.”

Eventually Geralt was able to recreate the chord and Jaskier encouraged him to take his fingers off and on again, until he was able to place them correctly without Jaskier’s help. By the time Jaskier seemed satisfied with Geralt’s ability to find the chord, the moon was high in the sky and Geralt’s fingertips were beginning to ache.

“What is the next chord I should learn, then?” Geralt asked, ready to move on. 

Jaskier shook his head and said, “Better to leave it for now. We’ve already practiced for longer than I would usually do with a beginner. If we go on too much longer your fingers will start to bleed, and although I know you heal faster than a human, it’s still better if we avoid that.”

“You’ve played for longer and not had your fingers bleed.” Geralt argued.

Jaskier made an amused sound, “Yes, and I’ve been playing for years. I’ve got calluses built up.”

Geralt frowned. Come to think of it, while he had never really paid attention before, Jaskier’s fingertips were quite rough, a contrast to the rest of his hands, which were still, even after all these years of travelling, soft. Most of Jaskier was soft, at first glance, although recent days had shown Geralt that he was actually quite leanly muscled, most likely from following Geralt around the continent. 

With less struggle than he had needed at the start of their stay in the lodge, Jaskier stood and called over his shoulder, “I’m ready for bed, even if you’re not.”

***

Jaskier frowned, unsure what had woken him. It was still dark, and he could hear Geralt breathing from his spot on the floor. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong, so Jaskier stretched a little to settle himself to go back to sleep, starting from his toes and working his way up. He rolled onto his side, and threw his arm up above his head. He was just beginning to drift back into sleep when he realised what he had just done. His eyes flew open and he sat up. He tested it again. Still no movement in his elbow or lower, but he could move his shoulders. 

“Geralt!” He rolled out of the bed, nearly standing on Geralt where he was sleeping on the floor. 

Geralt jerked awake, hand going to his steel sword on the floor next to him. He quickly scanned the room, then looked at Jaskier with a scowl. “What?”

“I can move my shoulders!” Jaskier could hardly contain his excitement. He hadn’t truly doubted that Yennefer could break the curse, but he was still almost giddy with relief, seeing some progress. 

“Why could this not have waited for morning, Jaskier?” Now that it was clear there were no threats, Geralt was clearly put out to be woken up in the middle of the night. 

“I just thought you’d like to know.” Jaskier huffed.

Geralt rolled his eyes, “Go the fuck to sleep, Jaskier.” And then Geralt lay himself down again, and seemed to easily slip back into sleep.

Jaskier lay awake, too excited to be finally starting to get some movement back to sleep. While he waited to be calm enough to sleep, he cast about for something to think about. Eventually he thought back to Geralt bringing him his lute, and asking Jaskier to teach him to play. Of all the things Jaskier would have expected, that wasn’t one of them. Geralt had clearly thought it would be easy, but to his credit, he had not given up as soon as it became clear he would not be able to pick it up in one lesson. Geralt was hardly the most gifted student he had ever taught, but he wasn’t the most incompetent, either. There were some students at Oxenfurt who clearly got in on the merits of their parent’s coin more than their own skills. Jaskier was already gone on the man, and it hadn’t helped, seeing the look of concentration on his face, lit by firelight as he oh, so carefully placed his fingers on Jaskier’s lute, just where he told him to, a few strands of white hair coming loose from it’s tie. Seeing him so focused, on Jaskier’s instrument, following Jaskier’s instructions, and so, so beautiful, was something he would hold close to himself for the rest of his life. 

At some point Jaskier must have drifted off, and when he woke again the sun was high in the sky, and Geralt long gone from the bedroom. When he ventured out into the main room, Geralt was carefully examining the edge of his silver sword, an uneaten bowl of porridge on the log he had taken to using to prepare food. As excited as Jaskier was to be able to move his shoulders, it did not make a lot of practical difference in what he was able to do for himself, and he held back the urge to throw a fit about it. Geralt was doing everything he could to make this easier on him, and taking his frustration out on him would be unworthy. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault he felt useless, less able to take care of himself than a child. Jaskier also knew well where Geralt’s limits lay. He had no doubts at all that Geralt would not let him come to physical harm, would not abandon him to die, but expecting him to deal with, or care at all about Jaskier’s emotions was the path to heartache, and Jaskier may have been a fool, but he didn’t actually set out to get himself hurt.

Once all the usual morning things were taken care of, Geralt brought the lute over again, looking determined. Jaskier talked him through tuning the lute again, and then asked Geralt to show him the chord they had practiced the day before. He made some minor corrections, but for someone who had taken up the lute the day before, he wasn’t doing badly. Jaskier supposed witchers had to be able to pick up physical skills quickly and easily, and that the main reason Geralt wasn’t one of the quickest students he had ever had was that most skills Geralt would have had to pick up didn’t involve such small, precise movements. Geralt’s Signs seemed to require movements like that, but from what Jaskier had seen, Geralt didn’t use many of them, and he must have learned them decades ago. 

When Jaskier was satisfied Geralt could correctly place his fingers for the first chord, he moved on to telling Geralt how to position his fingers for another. Geralt was frowning down at his hands as he carefully positioned his fingers and quickly looked up when he had them in the right places. Jaskier nodded encouragingly, then said, “Now take your hand off the neck, and put your fingers back in the right places.”

Geralt growled, frustrated, “Why am I doing this? I’ve already got my fingers in the right places.”

Jaskier laughed, “Because it would be a very boring song indeed if you only played one chord, or if the song had to stop while you figured out your fingers. You need to be able to change very quickly.”

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement, and turned his attention back to the lute. 

In the end, Jaskier called a halt to their lesson, citing the damage Geralt would do to his fingers if they continued for too much longer, “And if you can’t do anything with your hands as well, we’re both fucked, so let’s not get to that point, hmm?”

Over the next few days they developed a routine. They would rise together and Geralt would make sure Jaskier would be okay without assistance for a few hours before leaving to do chores outside, hunting fresh meat, caring for Roach, cutting and storing firewood and various other tasks that inevitably came up. Jaskier would either follow behind him, chattering about whatever came into his head, or stay in the lodge, depending on his mood. Some days, as tedious as it was to be alone inside, Jaskier desperately needed the space. To have time to gather his thoughts without Geralt nearby, and remind himself that, as caring as he seemed, Geralt was simply helping a friend, and nothing more, no matter what his heart may like to trick him into thinking. In the afternoon they would practice with the lute until it was time to eat again, and then Geralt would find something to occupy himself with inside until Jaskier decided Geralt’s fingers were likely recovered enough to not be damaged by pressing on the strings of the lute again. 

Their strangely domestic routine was disrupted after only a week when there was the rushing sound of a portal outside the lodge in the middle of Jaskier drilling Geralt in switching from one chord to another. Without hesitation, Geralt thrust the lute at Jaskier, who awkwardly pinned it to his front with his arms, more frustrated than ever to be unable to move properly. By the time Jaskier was sure he wasn’t going to drop his precious lute, awkwardly letting it slip to the ground, and he _would_ be having words with Geralt about that, Geralt was already wrenching the door open, sword in hand. 

Abruptly, Geralt lowered his sword, and Jaskier crowded up behind him, trying to peer over his, frankly, absurdly huge shoulders. As suddenly as Geralt had relaxed, his shoulders tensed again. 

“Ciri, what’s wrong?” Geralt asked, scanning the area, most likely making sure she hadn’t been followed. 

“Can’t I just miss you?” Ciri answered, and Jaskier pushed past where Geralt was still blocking the doorway. 

“How did you even get here?” Jaskier demanded. 

Ciri crossed her arms defensively. “I’m not an idiot, I can figure out how to make a portal myself after watching Yenn make them so many times.”

“Does Yenn know where you are?” Geralt asked, urgently.

Ciri rolled her eyes, “We just had lunch and she won't be expecting me again until dinner. She won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Geralt closed his eyes, as though searching for patience. “You _cannot_ just leave without letting her know. There are so many threats to you. Do you really think she doesn’t trace where you are at every minute of the day?”

Ciri lifted her chin defiantly and kept her arms crossed. “I can take care of myself, I’m not helpless.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but point out, “You were kidnapped less than two weeks ago. Just because she didn’t manage to keep you long, doesn’t mean she didn’t have you for a little while. And you didn’t rescue yourself.”

Ciri flushed a little but didn’t back down. “You can’t all keep me locked up forever!”

While Jaskier was arguing with Ciri about the stupid, absurd risks she was taking, for no good reason, Geralt slipped inside, and in less than a minute Yennefer was stepping out of her own portal, looking livid. 

“Cirillia Fiona Elen Rhiannon! What do you think you are doing? I about had a heart attack when the wards told me you had left Aretuza. I thought you had been taken.” Yennefer’s voice became progressively quieter and more dangerous as she spoke, and Ciri’s resolve started to crumble.

“You all always act like I can’t take care of myself.” She said petulantly. 

“You can’t.” Geralt said with characteristic bluntness. “Not against the sort of people who are trying to get to you.”

Ciri’s eyes widened, but she didn’t look any of them in the eye. 

“And if you think you’re going to get an opportunity to pull this sort of shit again, you’re in for a surprise.” Yennefer added. “You’re not going to get a moment to yourself again for months.”

Ciri’s jaw dropped in outrage. “You can’t do that!”

“I can, and I will. I will not risk you.” Yennefer’s voice was fierce, and Jaskier pitied anyone who tried to take Ciri while Yennefer was watching her. Not enough to feel bad about what would be coming to them, but all the same. 

“I just wanted to see Geralt and Jaskier.” Ciri’s eyes had started to fill with tears. “It’s been weeks, and I keep having this nightmare about you getting here too late, and Jaskier never getting better, and I just needed to see them.” Ciri’s voice went wobbly towards the end, and she roughly swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. 

Geralt sighed and gathered her into his arms for a hug. 

Yennefer shot him a venomous look. “ _Regardless_ of your reasons,” she began, “You _cannot_ run off without telling anyone.” 

Yennefer waited while Ciri pulled herself together. Once she had taken a shuddering breath and pulled way from Geralt, Yennefer continued. “If you feel the need to go somewhere, you need to _talk_ to me. But,” She went on briskly, “After scaring us all like that, you won’t be going anywhere for at _least_ a month.”

Ciri nodded miserably. 

The three of them stood close together for a moment, and Jaskier was loath to disturb them. Eventually, Geralt cleared his throat and stepped back. “Lunch is nearly ready. Join us before you return?” He asked.

Ciri looked hopefully at Yennefer, who nodded briskly and led the way inside. Jaskier followed the three of them in, and was abruptly confronted with the realisation that he would have to put up with the embarrassment of being fed in front of an audience. It had become routine when it was just himself and Geralt, and the humiliation had faded somewhat. It returned full force to have other people there again. 

Geralt didn’t leave him to stew on it for long, barely waiting until he was seated to start offering him bites of food, and the others politely paid no attention. Jaskier’s embarrassment faded, and he started to pay attention to the conversation again. 

“You’ve done well to fix up that shed around the back, although it’s less neat in here than I would have thought.” Yennefer was saying. “I would have guessed you would have everything in its place at all times, given that you usually have your packs so well organised.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “It’s not like we were expecting company. We left things where they fell when you arrived.”

Ciri’s brows furrowed, “Then why is Jaskier’s lute out? He can’t play it at the moment.”

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably, not liking the blunt reminder of everything he could not currently do, and Geralt answered for him, “We needed something to occupy our time. So he’s teaching me.”

Yennefer burst into delighted laughter, and Ciri sniffed and said primly, “Well, I think it’s lovely.”

Jaskier was gripped with the sudden fear that Geralt wouldn’t want to continue, and he would lose the one outlet he had.

“If you want something to fill your time, why not do something about that terrible beard that’s growing on Jaskier’s face? Why learn to play the lute?” Yennefer asked, still giggling.

Geralt, however, was unphased, “It’s challenging. I’m enjoying it.”

Jaskier felt a burst of pride, and grinned at him. It was good to know that Geralt wasn’t embarrassed to be learning from Jaskier, and that he liked their lessons as much as Jaskier did. 

Once the lunch dishes were cleared, and Jaskier’s lute stowed safely away, the conversation turned back to Ciri. 

“It will be at least a month before you’ll be going anywhere,” Yennefer said, and she held up a hand when Ciri protested. “You didn’t even consider the risks of what you did. What if you got the spell wrong? What if you had ended up somewhere else?”

“And you didn’t consider what it would do to Yennefer to find you gone.” Geralt added. “A month at least, before we’ll consider letting you visit again.”

Ciri sighed at this, but didn’t argue any further. “And after the month?” She asked.

“Then,” Yennefer said, “ _If_ you have shown that we can trust you, I will arrange for a visit. And you won’t be getting anywhere near as much free time for that month. Between the two of us, I’m sure Tissaia and I can come up with more than enough for you to do to keep you occupied and in sight.”

Ciri looked ready to argue again at that, but clearly thought better of it.

They spent the better part of the afternoon talking idly, Yennefer only teasing Geralt about his new lute playing skills once, and Ciri demanding a concert once he was able to play whole songs. 

Shortly before Geralt had to start preparing for the evening meal, Yennefer declared she had gathered enough strength to return to Aretuza, and Jaskier and Geralt were once again alone. It seemed quieter with the girls gone, and Jaskier was going to miss the extra company, and the extra buffer between himself and Geralt. He hadn’t realised how desperately he had wanted distractions from how, of necessity, things between himself were both strangely intimate and yet not intimate at all.

***

After Yennefer and Ciri left, they settled easily back into their routine, and Jaskier eventually decided Geralt was ready to learn to play a song, rather than drilling chords over and over. 

“You need to maintain a steady beat while you strum for this song.” Jaskier said, leaning forwards, clearly wishing he could take the lute and demonstrate. 

Geralt scowled down at the lute in concentration, and finally managed to produce sounds that made Jaskier nod in approval. Every time Geralt thought he had mastered the most difficult part of playing this instrument, it turned out there was something else, something harder still, that he didn’t even know was a consideration. 

“Yes, that’s more like it,” Jaskier said, “You need to-” Whatever it was that Geralt needed to do would have to wait, because Jaskier suddenly stopped, and frowned. “What is _that_? I’m not sure if my elbows are intensely itchy, or if I’m in pain.” Jaskier wriggled uncomfortably, twisting his body in a futile effort to either scratch the itch or push his sleeves up to look, Geralt couldn’t tell. 

Geralt set aside the lute carefully, and reached out to push Jaskier’s sleeves up above his elbows, revealing his strongly muscled forearms. Geralt couldn’t see anything wrong with Jaskier’s elbows, and told him so. Jaskier twisted again, trying to see for himself, and as he did, brought his arm across his body, bent at the elbow. After a moment, Jaskier noticed, and beamed at Geralt, sharing his joy and excitement, and Geralt couldn’t help but smile back. 

“I must have slept through that sensation last time,” Jaskier said, “And I’m grateful for that, it was awful, but it is _wonderful_ to be able to move more.”

Their lesson was diverted for a while, as Jaskier enjoyed his newfound movement, bending and twisting his arms, revelling in the mobility. Eventually, though, Jaskier tired of it, and urged Geralt to pick up the lute again. By the time Jaskier decided that they should stop, Geralt was able to play the simple beginner’s song. 

As he was delicately placing the lute back in its hard case, Geralt asked something he had been wondering for a while. “You don’t always play like this. Sometimes it sounds different. Quicker?”

Jaskier tilted his head at him, frowning, “Well, yes, but that’s a different technique. Let’s stick with just this one, for now, shall we?” Jaskier gave him a lopsided smile, “Once you’ve got all the basics down for chords, we can move on to other ways of playing, if you like.”

Geralt hadn’t even realised that there was more than one technique, or that he hadn’t even finished learning the basics of this one. He guiltily thought that he had been silent for perhaps too long, and glanced at Jaskier, who was waiting patiently for an answer, unconcerned with the prolonged silence. Having someone who knew him so well, and was unbothered by his taciturn nature was something he had dearly missed in the months between the dragon hunt and reconciling with Jaskier. Prompted by a sudden burst of fondness, Geralt answered, “Perhaps, once I know all the basics.” Geralt hoped he would not come to regret that concession.

Throughout lunch, Geralt thought more about the revelation that he had not yet even mastered all of what Jaskier considered the basics of one aspect of his craft. Not even one aspect, one facet of one of the aspects. Geralt was under no illusions that he could sing even half as well as Jaskier, even if he had a voice suited to singing, and asking him to dance would only end in disaster. Not to mention that Jaskier was almost preternaturally good at reading a crowd, and knowing what it was they wanted to hear, how to coax a sullen group into merriment, or a rowdy one into calmness. And Jaskier did all that while playing his lute so effortlessly that even after watching him perform for more than twenty years he had never noticed how very difficult it was. Geralt was somewhat dubious as to his own ability to play the simple song Jaskier had just taught him while walking, even with it fresh in his memory, let alone do so many other things at the same time. 

Geralt was starting to come to the shameful realisation that he had been vastly underestimating Jaskier for the entirety of the time they had known each other. He had always thought the bard was, for the most part, frivolous, and that with a little effort, anyone could do what he did, and that most simply chose not to. It was becoming more and more clear that Geralt had very little idea of what was involved in Jaskier’s craft, and with that realisation, came the thought that he wanted to. He wanted to learn more about Jaskier’s vocation, and more about Jaskier. Things he perhaps should have learned long since. 


	3. Conscious Competence

Jaskier was considering the possibility that he might be able to feed himself now, when Geralt, who had been fetching the stew that was simmering over the fire in the hearth, asked, “How do you decide what you are going to play?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier answered, looking down at his arm. Perhaps if Geralt put the spoon in his hand, and tied something around it to stop it falling out?

“When you’re performing, you don’t play the same things every time, so how do you decide what you’re going to play?” Geralt repeated. 

Jaskier jerked his head up guiltily. “Oh! Sorry, I was distracted.” It wasn’t often that Geralt started a conversation out of the blue, and even less often that he asked about something to do with Jaskier’s craft. The least Jaskier could do was pay attention when he did. “Well, it depends on the location, I suppose, and the mood of the place, and what we’re in town for. People who need a witcher because a bruxa is killing the local populace don’t usually want to hear a song about vampires, for instance.” Jaskier realised he was rambling, and snapped his mouth shut. 

Geralt frowned, “That’s what I mean. How does the location change what you play? And even in towns that are close together, you don’t play the same songs. So how do you decide?”

Jaskier blinked in surprise. Geralt had never shown this sort of interest, before. The closest he had ever come was his interest in the lute, and Jaskier had a suspicion that Geralt hadn’t realised how difficult it would be when he asked to learn, and now that he knew, was stubbornly refusing to let it defeat him. Jaskier took a moment to think about his answer. It had been so long since he thought about how he decided which songs would be best, that it took some time to articulate the process. While he thought, Geralt started offering spoonfuls of food.

“Well,” Jaskier began slowly, his idea about holding a spoon forgotten for now, “People who have spent their whole lives in a small village in the mountains don’t usually have much interest in lots of ballads about the sea, but one song later in a set is sometimes intriguing to them, as something foreign and exciting.” Jaskier paused, and when Geralt nodded, he continued, “And similarly, people from the coast don’t usually want to hear lots of songs about mountain winters and such.”

Geralt chewed thoughtfully on a particularly tough bite of stew, swallowed, and asked, “You said it also depends on the mood of a crowd. How does that change what you play?”

The conversation continued through the meal, with Geralt asking the occasional question, and Jaskier gaining confidence as it became obvious that Geralt was truly interested in his answers, his arms waving in emphasis. By the time the remnants of the meal were cleared away the conversation had shifted to more general topics. 

Jaskier had stretched himself out on his stomach in front of the hearth, his arms crossed under his head, enjoying the warmth of the fire, and still revelling in his new ability to bend his arms at the elbow. He was drowsy, full and warm and content to let the conversation roam to whatever topics interested the both of them. 

“Your ability to charm your way into so many beds cannot possibly be a family trait,” Geralt said from where he was leaning against the log he still hadn’t replaced with a more sensible food preparation area. “We wouldn’t be able to move, for tripping over your cousins and such.”

Jaskier chuckled, “No really! My grandmother was _legendary_ for not only her ability to charm her way into people’s beds, but also somehow not offend anyone by doing so. Not even her husband. We daren’t speculate about how _that_ relationship worked.”

Geralt hummed, “Yes, there are some things it is better to not know about one's ancestors.”

“Exactly!” Jaskier agreed.

“Why do you call him your grandmother’s husband, not your grandfather, though?” Geralt asked idly.

“Oh, it’s an open secret that he only fathered some of her children.” Jaskier said dismissively. “It didn’t seem to bother him any. He treated them all the same, and all of his grandchildren as well.” He smiled fondly. “I miss him. He passed when I was, oh, eleven or twelve.”

“If everyone knew he wasn’t the father, did everyone know who _was_?”

Jaskier laughed out loud at that, “No. I don’t think even Gram knew that. She narrowed it down, of course. My mother’s father was either the village blacksmith, that one elf who passed through, or she had a story about a fey man, but no one was ever sure if she was serious.” 

“Huh.”

Jaskier opened one eye to see if Geralt was going to add anything, and when it was clear he wasn’t, he closed his eyes again and let himself drift into the area between awake and asleep. Jaskier wasn’t sure where Geralt’s sudden interest had come from, but he would worry about not getting his hopes up when he was properly awake. He could guard his heart later, and in the meantime, enjoy the moment for what it was. 

***

Geralt hauled in what felt like the hundredth bucket of water the next afternoon, but was more likely the twentieth, and enjoyed the feeling of exertion, and the anticipation of feeling clean in the not too distant future. He didn’t often bother with the effort or expense involved in a warm bath, preferring to clean the worst of the grime off and leaving it at that, but it was an enjoyable luxury when he did choose to do it properly. 

Hauling water unfortunately also left his mind free to wander back to Jaskier. The more he learned about how knowledgeable he was in his chosen profession, the more Geralt couldn’t look away. The passion in his voice as he expounded on the details of how he chose a song, or decided where to move in a room, the way he leaned forward to emphasise his point, or cast his arm out to illustrate his point, had Geralt having to force himself not to lean into Jaskier’s space. How was it that he had known Jaskier for more than twenty years, and he was only now beginning to see him clearly? And the man he was seeing took his breath away. Geralt had known, of course, that Jaskier was an attractive man. Anyone with eyes could see that. But until now it had been an abstract sort of knowledge. Jaskier had brown hair, an irritating tendency to say just the wrong thing to the worst possible person, and pleasing proportions. It was only now that the knowledge caused Geralt to become distracted.

The sudden memory of the night before, Jaskier sprawled out in front of the fire, utterly relaxed and trusting, was enough to almost make Geralt stumble with the bucket of water. Jaskier had been in only his thin shirt and trousers, and the light from the fire behind him had rendered the shirt almost transparent, revealing Jaskier’s leanly muscled torso. The way he had curled his arms around to prop his head up had caused his biceps to bulge and Geralt had been reminded of the unexpected strength in those arms. And his voice! When he had chuckled lowly at some comment Geralt had made, Geralt had suddenly found his mouth dry. 

The last thing Jaskier could possibly want, under the circumstances, was for a long time friend, one whom he was almost entirely dependent on until the curse broke, to develop a more than platonic interest in him. Let alone one who’s fault it was that he was cursed in the first place. If Geralt had returned from his hunt sooner, had killed the mage quicker, Jaskier wouldn’t be in this position, and Geralt would never wish to make him feel obliged in any way. Just the thought made him sick. Better to dismiss any new thoughts that he had. They would never go anywhere, anyway. 

Geralt brought the final bucket of water inside and checked the temperature of the water already in the tub. It was nearly warm enough, but given the chill that was beginning to linger in the air with the advancing Autumn, it would probably be better to get it too hot than too cold. 

The slam of the door must have woken Jaskier, because he emerged from the bedroom, still yawning and rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his wrists. “What’s this then?” He asked around a yawn.

“Bath.” Geralt grunted. “We both stink.”

Jaskier pulled a face. “Yes, we do. And if you’ve noticed, and care enough to do something about it, we probably stink worse than I realised.”

It wasn’t that Geralt couldn’t tell when he, or others, were starting to smell, he just didn’t let it bother him. If he let every unpleasant smell he picked up bother him, he would never not be bothered by smells. Humans simply did not realise just how much witchers could smell, or how much information they picked up from the scent of things. Not thinking of smells as ‘good’ or ‘bad’, but simply information, was the only way to cope with that kind of sensory bombardment. 

Jaskier shifted uneasily from his place in the doorway, and Geralt pointed towards where he had poured a rather watery porridge into a cup. Jaskier had figured out that if he clamped a cup between his wrists he was able to maneuver it to his mouth well enough to at least drink without any assistance, and they had taken advantage of the discovery to allow him at least a little independence. 

Jaksier shuffled over to the cup, and only grumbled a little when he discovered that the porridge inside had cooled significantly since Geralt had made it. 

Geralt tested the water again, and, finding it warm enough at last, began stripping to clean himself. Behind him, he heard Jaskier choke a little on his porridge. Perhaps he had left in a lump when he had been making it. Geralt thought longingly of climbing into the still-steaming water, but knew that before he could even consider it, he had to make sure Jaskier could clean himself. 

Once he was clean and re-dressed, Geralt asked Jaskier, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Jaskier replied, not meeting his eyes. 

Geralt found, as he lifted Jaskier’s shirt over his head, that he couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn to Jaskier’s broad chest, with the small pendant that Yennefer had enchanted still hanging from his neck, and he resisted the impulse to find out if the surprising amount of hair was as soft as it looked. Not only would Jaskier never forgive him if he took advantage, Geralt would never forgive himself. 

As he walked around Jaskier to undo the tie at the back of his trousers, Geralt accidentally brushed the back of his hand across the smooth skin on Jaskier’s waist, and Jaskier jolted away from the touch. Geralt felt the phantom sensation of Jaskier’s warmth on the backs of his fingers as he watched himself unpick the bow on Jaskier’s trousers and let them fall. 

With his new range of motion, Jaskier was able to, with a little maneuvering, take things from there, and Geralt busied himself with cleaning up the dishes from breakfast while Jaskier bathed. He listened to the splash of the rough cloth in water, and the patter of some spilling onto the floor, and fought not to think back to the last time they bathed, and the view he had thought nothing of at the time, and was intensely interested in now. Geralt wanted desperately to leave, let Jaskier bathe in privacy, but that would only leave him with no way to dress once he was done, and although it was not yet truly cold, for a human the air was chilly enough to be uncomfortable when undressed, and he would not allow his own problems leave Jaskier to suffer. 

It seemed to take an age, most likely because Jaskier had no way to get a firm grip on the cloth he was using to bathe himself, and dropped it repeatedly, but finally, Geralt heard Jaskier awkwardly drag the larger piece of linen Geralt had set out for him to dry himself off with towards himself. Once he seemed to be done, Geralt cleared his throat and stepped forward with the clean clothes he had pulled from Jaskier’s pack. 

Jaskier’s face was flushed crimson as Geralt held the underthings and then trousers out for him to step into, the silence hanging heavy between them. Conversation had flowed so easily over the last few days, and now it seemed even Jaskier couldn’t find any words to say. Geralt quickly did the ties at the back, and noticed every brief brush of his fingers against the small of Jaskier’s back. His eyes were drawn to a small scar on Jaskier’s shoulder blade, and he resisted the urge to ask about it, to learn the story behind where it came from. Jaskier was so full of stories, and Geralt found that he now wanted to know every one. The scar was old, faded, and Geralt wondered if it came from a childhood scrape, or if it had been collected later, in something more serious. 

As soon as Geralt was sure Jaskier’s trousers would not fall down as soon as he moved, Geralt stepped back and gathered up the shirt. Geralt quickly pulled it over Jaskier’s head, and helped him thread his arms through the arm holes, then stepped back.

Jaskier looked down at what he was now wearing, and said, “Really, Geralt? The green trousers with an orange shirt? Tell me the truth. Do you only ever wear black because you are colour blind?”

With Jaskier’s jab, the tension dissipated, and Geralt felt more at ease. 

“Black lets people know I am a witcher, as well you know.” Geralt said.

Jaskier waved an arm through the air as though shooing away a fly, and said, “Yes, yes, yes, all that ichor, anything you wore would be stained black anyway, but really, surely even you can tell that this combination is just terrible.”

“That presumes that I care enough to notice.”

Geralt relaxed into their bickering, and let himself forget, for the moment, the growing feelings he needed to rid himself of. 

Geralt came to the end of the tune, and looked up at Jaskier for approval. Jaskier beamed at him, from his seat next to Geralt and said, “For a beginner you’re doing remarkably well. That was quite a creditable rendition, well done.”

Geralt ducked his head to hide his smile, and asked, “Do you teach many students the lute when you lecture at the university?”

“No. sometimes I give lessons to small groups of students who seem particularly promising, but generally I teach composition and poetry.” Jaskier answered. 

Geralt tilted his head, puzzled, “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Jaskier tilted his head and smiled. “No. Composition is writing the music, and poetry is the lyrics.”

“I didn’t realise they were separate skills.”

Jaskier shrugged. “They are and they aren’t. It’s very common for a lyricist to work closely with a composer.”

“But you do both.” Another thing that Geralt had not realised Jaskier was uncommonly talented at. The more he learned about the man the more there was to admire. More and more in recent days Geralt had been having difficulties focusing on the lessons, the warmth and smell of Jaskier next to him stealing his attention away at crucial moments, the passion in his voice when he was talking about his life’s work captivating enough that Geralt would lose track of his words to bask in it. He would lurch back to reality, struggling to pick up the thread of the conversation again, and feeling guilty. Words were so central to Jaskier’s view of the world that, more and more, Geralt found that he did not wish to miss any of it. 

***

Not even a week later, Jaskier was once again woken by the terrible itching sensation as he regained movement in his wrists. It would not be long now until he regained full use of his hands. He had somewhat mixed feelings about that; he was longing to hold his lute again, to play, rather than guiding Geralt through his own fumbling attempts. But Geralt had always been so adamant about not wanting anyone needing him, and Jaskier had been so dependent on him for weeks now, and he was certain that Geralt would want nothing more than to be as far away from him as possible as soon as Jaskier could fend for himself. If Jaskier was lucky, he would meet Geralt again in a season or so, once the memory had faded, and he would be able to follow the witcher on his Path again, balance restored and with no changes. If he were unlucky, the next time he saw Geralt he would ride out of town faster than Jaskier could follow, and he did not know if he could bear it, to lose the quiet intimacy of shared meals, shared rooms at inns, shared camps in the evening and companionship during the days. 

He would miss it all the more, after the long conversations they had been having of late. Geralt was still spare with his words, but he had been asking questions about all sorts of things he had never shown an interest in before. Composition and dance, the university at Oxenfurt and Jaskier’s family. He had to remind himself that Geralt was likely only bored, and looking for a way to pass the time. He had never shown an interest before, and Jaskier would be fooling himself to think Geralt’s interest was any more than that. 

Finally, Yennefer sent a message through the xenovox, informing them that she and Ciri would be coming to visit the next day, and Ciri would be staying overnight. Jaskier immediately set about tidying as much as he could, with how difficult it was to pick things up, moving larger items back into their places, and smaller items close to where they belonged, for Geralt to put away properly. With no one else around, they had been somewhat careless about returning things to their proper places. 

Geralt occupied himself ensuring that there would be enough food to last for the visit, and by the time they heard the sound of Yennefer’s portal, there was already a stew simmering over the hearth fire. 

Before either of them could open the door to greet them, Ciri burst in and threw herself at Geralt, hair flying behind her, and Yennefer following at a more sedate pace. Jaskier smiled at the picture Geralt and Ciri made, his much larger form enveloping her and almost hiding her from view, Ciri’s head just barely brushing Geralt’s chin after he latest growth spurt. He was so distracted thinking about how having a daughter had mellowed Geralt that he was caught off guard and nearly bowled over when Ciri threw herself at him in turn.

“Be careful,” Yennefer called, “You might disappear into that terrible beard that’s growing on Jaskier’s face.”

“It’s not that bad.” Jaskier said, indignant.

Ciri leaned back and examined his face. “It really is.” She said apologetically.

Jaskier huffed, but couldn’t really deny it. Not only had his beard grown quite long, it wasn’t even neat, with uneven ends and straggly edges. 

Yennefer settled herself in front of the fire, arranging her skirts neatly around her. “I, for one, refuse to eat a meal while having to look at it.”

“Go hungry, then.” Jaskier sniped back, irritated. 

Geralt finally contributed to the conversation with, “It really is starting to get out of hand.” When Jaskier shot him a glare, he shrugged and added, “We have time to deal with it before the food is ready, if you like.”

Jaskier sighed and nodded. It would at least be a relief to finally be rid of the awful beard. 

It didn’t take Geralt long to collect all the things he would need to shave Jaskier, and they were sitting, knees almost touching. Jaskier was actually rather relieved that, since they were going to do this, Yennefer and Ciri were there, providing a distraction from simply watching Geralt. 

Ciri had taken a seat nearby, watching, fascinated. She had most likely never seen someone have their face shaved before. Jaskier watched her reactions out of the corner of his eyes while Geralt gently turned his face to more easily see what he was doing as he removed most of the length of the hair before lathering some soap and starting to smooth it over Jaskier’s face. 

He looked back at Geralt at the first drag of the blade across his cheek, and he forgot Ciri and Yennefer entirely. His attention was taken up entirely by the flecks of darker gold in Geralt’s yellow eyes, the warmth of Geralt’s fingertips gently resting on his face, holding him at the correct angle, the smell of Geralt so close, the feel of his breath ghosting over Jaskier’s lips. Geralt licked his lips and smoothed a finger over the freshly shaved skin.

The spell was broken when Geralt turned to rinse the blade in the bowl of water he had brought over. Yennefer had a peculiar smile on her face and had raised her eyebrows. Before Jaskier could ask her what she was thinking of, she asked, “Are you still wasting your time learning to play the lute?”

Ciri shot her a mock glare, “It’s not a waste of time. Can you play any songs yet?”

“He can indeed!” Jaskier answered for him, “Even a few we can sing along with if we wish.”

“Hold still,” Geralt scolded, and turned Jaskier’s face back towards him, “Unless you would like me to cut you open while I do this.”

“You would never.” Jaskier said, confident.

When Jaskier was finally clean shaven again he ran the backs of his hands over the newly revealed smooth skin of his face while everyone else got settled with their food.

Geralt came over and wrapped his unresponsive fingers around the spoon before tying it in place and leaving the bowl in easy reach. Jaskier had never known he could be so happy to feed himself until the first day he had suggested they try that, and it had worked. 

Once they had finished their meal, Yennefer rose gracefully and announced that she would be back the next day to retrieve Ciri, who raced over to embrace her before she left. 

Ciri had barely sat down before she bounced back up again and snagged the lute from where it was propped up in a corner. “You have to play! Jaskier said you can play some songs now, so you have to show me. You promised!”

“I don’t remember making that promise.” Geralt answered, but took the lute without any further complaining. 

Geralt frowned with concentration during most of his performance, and it would not have appealed to any other audience, Geralt did not look up, nor did he move from his rigid posture, but Jaskier was thrilled at the progress he had made, and Ciri was delighted to be able to sing along with some simple songs that she knew, so Jaskier was content that it would not put Geralt off from ever wanting to play again. 

By the time Geralt had gone through his entire repertoire, with a few encores of songs that Ciri particularly enjoyed, it had gotten quite late, and all three of them settled into the bedroom, Geralt and Jaskier’s bedrolls set up on the floor, and the bed set aside for Ciri. 

When Jaskier woke in the morning, Geralt had disappeared somewhere outside, and Ciri was just beginning to stir in the bed. He stretched and went to see if Geralt had left breakfast, or if he was going to have to wait until Ciri was awake. 

To his frustration, Geralt had left a pot of porridge warming over the fire, but had not put any in a bowl, nor had he made it runny enough for Jaskier to consume without a spoon. He settled down to wait impatiently for Ciri to wake up to help him. After what felt like an hour, but was more likely only a few minutes, Ciri stumbled into the main room, yawning.

“Morning,” she mumbled. “Is there any food?”

Jaskier gestured towards the pot over the fire, “Porridge.”

Ciri scooped out two bowls full without having to be asked, and copied Geralt’s actions from the night before, folding Jaskier’s fingers around his spoon, and tying it in place.

“I bet you’re itching to not need someone to do that,” Ciri commented.

“Mm.”

Ciri looked up from her bowl, brows furrowed, “Why are you so unenthusiastic about that?”

“I’m still half asleep, that’s all,” Jaskier said, breezy.

“No you’re not, you’re always disgustingly alert first thing in the morning.” Ciri put down her bowl. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, really.” Jaskier still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Ciri scowled at him and crossed her arms. 

Jaskier sighed. “I’m just not looking forward to when Geralt leaves me in Vizima, or, Melitele forbid, Ivalo or some other backwater town.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the only person he’s ever actually wanted to take care of.” Jaskier shrugged, “As soon as I’m able to fend for myself he’ll make sure I’m in some populated area and give some sort of excuse to leave me there. He’s only stuck around this long because he blames himself for everything that goes wrong.” Jaskier gave a bitter chuckle, “At least, he does when he’s not blaming me.” 

“He wouldn’t do that.” Ciri said, firm.

Jaskier added, “I doubt he would disappear on me forever. I’m sure in a few seasons he’d show up again and pretend that nothing happened. But he’s going to want a break from me for a while, after having to take care of me. I’m just not looking forward to missing him.” Jaskier tried to move the conversation along, and took a mouthful of his breakfast. “I think he put some honey in the porridge this morning. He must have used the last of it for this.”

Ciri bit her lip nervously and asked, “Why do you put up with it? Him always running away like that? You’re always helping him, and complimenting him, and he doesn’t do the same for you.”

“He does, though,” Jaskier said quietly. “He’s less obvious about it, but he does. He stops in towns more often, he shares the better cuts of meat, he gives me the place closer to the fire on cold nights. He rarely has any words to say, let alone kind ones, so he shows his kindness in other ways. And.” He paused, not sure if he wanted to truly answer Ciri’s question. “Well. You forgive people all sorts of things when you love them.”

Ciri stared at him with wide eyes, and Jaskier determinedly dug into his food, turning the conversation to other matters. “How is Aretuza? Have you found any particularly interesting places there?”

***

Geralt was brushing down Roach when Ciri emerged from the lodge, smelling faintly of the porridge she had just eaten. When she made to sit on the fence nearby and watch, he handed her a brush and directed her towards Roach’s other side. 

They worked in companionable silence until Roach was thoroughly brushed and checked over, and once they were stowing everything away, Ciri said, “You seem tense.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“That’s not actually got anything to do with what I said, but alright.” Ciri crossed her arms, “Let’s do this the hard way then. Why are you tense?”

“I’m not tense.” There was no way Geralt was going to talk to his Child Surprise about how he ruined every good thing in his life, sometimes before even realising he had it.

“You know I’m just going to keep bugging you until you tell me what’s wrong.” 

Geralt pointedly headed towards where he had set up one of his snares, and didn’t answer. 

Ciri trailed behind him, “I hope you realise I’m not going to let this go. I’m going to ask again and again until you answer, so you may as well tell me now.”

Geralt shot her an amused look, “If I can withstand Jaskier for the last twenty years, I think I can manage to ignore a few questions from you.”

Ciri huffed, but helped Geralt check the snares, and showed that she had retained what he had taught her about preparing pheasants to be cooked. 

On their way back to the lodge, Ciri asked, “Where are we going to go, after the curse is broken?”

“Kaer Morhen, if it’s not too close to winter to risk the trail,” Geralt grunted.

“And if it is too close to winter?” Ciri pressed.

“Haven’t decided.”

Ciri thought for a moment, then said, “Perhaps we could go to Oxenfurt? I could learn so much from the library there.”

“No. Jaskier spends most winters in Oxenfurt,” Geralt snapped.

Ciri thinned her lips. “All the more reason to spend the winter there.”

“Jaskier is not going to want to spend the winter with m-. With us.” Geralt lengthened his stride, in an effort to escape the conversation.

“He told you that, did he?” Ciri challenged.

Geralt stopped, resigned. It seemed he was having this conversation whether he wanted to or not. “He doesn’t need to. He was only cursed because I failed to protect you well enough, and he has hated every minute of it. Of course he wouldn’t want to spend the winter with me.” Geralt sighed. “I would be surprised if he ever wanted anything to do with me again. This on top of all the other shit I’ve piled on him in the past. It’s more than I would ask anyone to put up with.”

Geralt began walking again, this time fast enough that Ciri would need all her concentration to not trip, or fall behind. It was unkind of him, but he did not want to answer any more of her questions. If he allowed her to continue the conversation, she would ask about what, exactly, he had done in the past, and he didn’t care to linger over his failures. Particularly as he was only just beginning to realise how badly he had fucked up. How had he spent twenty years knowing Jaskier without ever really knowing him? If he had ever, in the entire time, even tried to learn more about his friend, he might not have been so damned stupid. If ever there had been even the slightest chance of changing his relationship with Jaskier, it had passed with what he had said in the Caingorn Mountains. As it stood, he was lucky he had even had the opportunity to spend the time he had with Jaskier since then. Add in Jaskier’s obvious humiliation every time Geralt helped him with something, and chances were, the moment he was back in civilisation and able to fend for himself, Jaskier would bring up some urgent business and disappear to Novigrad or Oxenfurt. If Geralt ever saw him again after that, he was sure Jaskier would be politely distant, and be oh so inconveniently busy, so sorry, there’s just no way he had the time to spend with Geralt. 

The thought of it had a dark scowl on Geralt’s face, the thought of being dismissed was painful, and all the more so for the fact that he didn’t even believe Jaskier would be wrong to do so. It seemed all he had ever brought the bard was pain, and a few good moments were hardly compensation for that. 

Geralt was still in a foul mood when he burst through the door to prepare lunch. Jaskier took one look at him, and clearly decided it wasn’t worth trying to start a conversation. Ciri trailed in behind him not long after. She sat down on the floor between the two of them, and looked pensively between them. Geralt had calmed somewhat by the time the food was served, the familiar motions soothing in their mundanity. 

He was beginning to truly relax when Ciri spoke up. “Since it’s clear that neither of you are going to say anything, and you’re both miserable for it, I’m going to have to be the one to start the conversation.”

Geralt’s head snapped up, and he saw Jaskier’s shoulders tense as he turned to look at Ciri, wide-eyed.

Voice tight, Jaskier said, “Ciri! We spoke in confidence. It is not well done of you to bring these things up.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. What would Jaskier be concerned Ciri would divulge?

Ciri rolled her eyes, “I said _both_ of you, not just you, Jaskier. You’re both being idiots.”

“Jaskier is right, you should not share things told to you with the intent that it remains between you and one other person.” Geralt said, hastily. Whatever Jaskier had been hiding, Geralt was far more concerned with what Ciri may reveal about himself. 

Ciri looked up to the ceiling, as though she would find answers up there. “You’re both stupid.” She turned to Jaskier, “Geralt thinks you’re going to leave as soon as the curse is broken and will never want to see him again, and he hates himself for it.” 

Geralt froze, every muscle taut. He could scarcely believe that Ciri had just said that, and he did not dare look at Jaskier to see his reaction. 

She swiveled towards Geralt, “Jaskier thinks you’re going to abandon him as soon as the curse is broken, and he’s dreading missing you.”

Geralt whipped his head around to see Jaskier gaping at him, eyes wide. 

She stood and brushed her off on her trousers. "I'm going out to exercise Roach. If I come and back and you still haven't talked about this, I'm going to share more things you don't want shared." With that, she strode outside.

Geralt and Jaskier stared at each other for a long moment, and, unsurprisingly, Jaskier found his words first. “Why would you think I would leave? After all this?”

“Why would you stay?” Geralt swept his arm out, trying to indicate everything, their whole history together, “What possible reason would you have to want to stay? I have never-” Geralt’s voice faltered. What could he say? He had never told Jaskier when he appreciated him? He had never truly listened? He had never seen how extraordinary he was until it was far too late? Eventually he settled on, “After everything I said, why would you put up with me?”

Jaskier’s voice was odd when he answered, “Do you really think I know you so little, that I don’t know that what you do matters far more than what you say?”

Geralt stepped tentatively closer. “You’re not going to leave?” He tried to crush the hope that was growing; it would only cause him pain later.

“Not if you don’t want me to.” Jaskier was watching Geralt carefully.

“No,” he said, hoarse. “No, I don’t want you to go.” 


	4. Unconscious Competence

Yennefer arrived that afternoon to fetch Ciri, who hugged her tightly before gathering her things to return with her to Aretuza. 

Geralt and Jaskier did not have time to resume their peaceful routine. Jaskier yelped shortly after breakfast the next morning, rubbing frantically at his fingers. He beamed at Geralt, and wiggled his fingers. “Look! I can move again!”

Geralt smiled back, but could not help the feeling of trepidation. It would not be long now before he found out if Jaskier truly meant to remain with him on the Path, or if it had all become too much at last. 

They took the rest of the day to secure the lodge, leaving things organised enough that, if they ever came past again, they would be able to make use of the place, and planned to leave in the morning. Jaskier clearly took great delight in performing tasks that he had been unable to do for more than a month, even ones he ordinarily wheedled at Geralt to do for him, such as butchering meat for their meals. He also lifted the small charm that had been dangling around his neck over his head and seemed to consider it a moment, before placing it gently in the storage cupboard.

That evening, Jaskier reverently lifted his lute out of its case and tuned it before playing more and more complex songs, tunes that Geralt knew he had no hope of replicating, even if he were to study for years. Geralt reclined in front of the fire, watching Jaskier’s joy at being able to play again. He looked almost transported, eyes closed and swaying with the music.

By the time Jaskier was done playing, it was well past time they should have been asleep, and for the first time since Geralt asked to learn to play, there was no lesson that day. He found that he missed it. 

The first days back on the road were a relief, but Geralt quickly came to miss the warmth that came with being able to sleep indoors. The nights were quickly becoming chilly. Geralt supposed that from the outside, nothing had changed. They travelled as they always had, Geralt took contracts for monsters, and usually had to argue to be paid for them, and Jaskier performed in taverns and inns. They still spent most nights sleeping under the stars, with the occasional night in an inn. Some weeks, Ciri travelled with them, in much higher spirits since things had more or less returned to normal. Other weeks, she remained with Yennefer, who had haughtily declared that now that she was used to spending so much time with Ciri, she wasn’t going to give it up lightly.

And yet, Geralt found that he could not help but watch Jaskier’s once-again nimble fingers as he played, and that, without his say-so, his eyes would follow Jaskier as he performed, fascinated with how he read the crowd, played them as much as he did his lute. Geralt also found that, now that he was watching Jaskier perform regularly again, he only had more questions about his craft. 

***

As cold as it was becoming to sleep out of doors, Jaskier was glad to be on the move again. The ability to play his lute alone would have been compensation enough, but he had also simply missed travelling. Waking up in a different place each morning, meeting new people. Geralt had taken a truly hair-raising hunt near Hagge, where a royal wyvern had nearly taken off with Roach before Geralt had leaped onto its back while it had been flying, and stabbed it with his silver sword, the mad bastard. As far as Jaskier was concerned the only good thing to come of that was the ballad he was writing about it, and possibly the payment the alderman had grudgingly handed over when presented with the thing’s head. 

The only real change since he had been cursed had been Geralt’s continued interest in Jaskier’s craft. The day after Jaskier had made his first performance after regaining use of his fingers, they had been travelling down the road, Jaskier making observations about their surroundings and speculating on what they might find in the next village, when, out of the blue, Geralt had asked, “How do you decide when to play a jig, rather than an upbeat song that doesn’t encourage dancing?”

Jaskier had been taken aback and took an uncharacteristically long time to answer. Long enough that he saw Geralt start to withdraw into himself, and he hastily babbled an answer that he wasn’t sure was entirely coherent, but the last thing he wanted was for Geralt to stop showing an interest. 

Nearly a month after they had begun travelling again, Jaskier had fallen into an exhausted sleep almost as soon as he had finished his evening meal, a week of particularly demanding performances that went late into the night each night, and hard travel in between having worn him out. He was rather put out to be woken by an unfortunately placed rock barely an hour after having fallen asleep. He shifted just enough to dislodge the rock from his back and was just starting to slip back into sleep when the sounds he was hearing registered. Someone nearby was playing a simple tune on a lute, with at least moderate proficiency. He opened his eyes just enough to get a peek at whoever was playing, and although he had known that it was only himself and Geralt at their camp site, was still somehow mildly surprised to see him cradling the lute, and frowning down at it in concentration. He made it most of the way through the song, Jaskier still surreptitiously watching from the other side of the camp, before making a minor mistake and cursing. 

Jaskier endeavoured to lie as still as he could and mimic sleep, but it seemed it was lost on Geralt, who was concentrating almost entirely on the lute. It took him two more attempts, but eventually he played the song with no errors and he stilled the strings with a small smile of satisfaction. Jaskier was sure Geralt would notice that he was awake by that point, his heart was beating so fast. He had hardly dared believe that Geralt had continued to learn the lute out of anything other than stubbornness, and here he was, practicing without any need at all, without even letting Jaskier know about it. 

Next he tried a simpler song that Jaskier had taught him, this time accompanying his playing with a pleasant, if untrained, baritone. It was truly unfair. Not only was Geralt strong, unflinchingly moral, kind at unexpected times, and just enough of an asshole to keep things interesting, it seemed he now had a genuine interest in Jaskier’s life’s passion.

As much as Jaskier would have liked to stay awake and listen to Geralt’s unselfconscious performance, exhaustion pulled him under again, and when he next blinked, it was morning, and Geralt was already moving around camp, stowing their belongings into Roach’s saddlebags, the lute carefully tucked back into its case. 

That evening Jaskier waited until they had set up camp and had a rabbit roasting over the fire to hand his lute to Geralt, who looked up at him in surprise. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier scoffed, “It’s been far too long since your last lesson anyway. You’ve probably forgotten all sorts of things.” Geralt had gone out of his way to hide his practicing from him, so Jaskier was going to play along and pretend he didn’t know. “Now, let’s see you show me some chords.”

Jaskier settled on the log next to Geralt and reached over to adjust his fingers on the fret slightly as he noticed that Geralt had picked up a minor bad habit while practicing by himself. All in all, Geralt had forgotten very little, likely due to his secret practice. 

Eventually, Jaskier called a halt to their practice in order to eat, and after the meal picked up the lute himself, while Geralt inspected his blades. It was the same as thousands of other nights they had spent, companionably sitting together next to a fire for warmth, the stars overhead shining and the quiet sounds of insects and small animals in the trees surrounding them. The only difference at all was the lesson before their meal. 

Jaskier spent some time perfecting his song about the royal wyvern, before his thoughts drifted to Geralt’s surreptitious practice the night before, and the lovely baritone he had sung with. Barely noticing he was doing it, Jaskier started plucking out a new tune. 

***

In Ban Gleán, Geralt picked up a contract for an arachas. Suspecting that the alderman was either lying or mistaken, Geralt managed to persuade Jaskier to stay behind, and was glad of it when instead he encountered a nest of endregas instead. When he finally stumbled back to the inn he saw Jaskier performing, but was too tired and sore to do more than yank off his armour and sprawl out on the one bed before falling asleep. He woke briefly when Jaskier came to bed and elbowed him until he shifted across enough that he fit, and was asleep again before Jaskier had even finished wriggling.

He woke the next morning to Jaskier bursting into their room, making entirely too much noise and jerking him abruptly out of sleep. 

“Damn it, Jaskier,” he groaned.

Jaskier flapped a hand at him, “Stop moaning. If I had come in quietly you would have woken up anyway, but it would have been groping for a knife.”

Geralt grumbled at that but didn’t dispute it. “What were you out for so early, anyway?”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows, “Firstly, it’s not that early, you just slept late. And secondly, I had to collect this before you inevitably woke and demanded we get on the road immediately.” Jaskier reached down and grabbed a lute case from where he must have propped it against the wall when he came in.

“Why do you need a new lute case? Yours is still perfectly serviceable.” Geralt dragged a hand over his eyes, trying to wake up properly to understand the logic behind Jaskier’s actions. It was to do with his lute, so surely there was some good reason for it, but that reason was escaping him.

“Mine has served me faithfully for years, and provided I take care of it, will last for years more.” Jaskier pushed Geralt’s legs out of the way to sit down on the bed, and turned the lute case sideways to begin opening it, “As will this one, if you take care of it properly.”

“You… bought me a lute case.” Geralt knew there was something he was missing, but what would he need a lute case for? It’s not like he owned his own lute.

Jaskier flipped open the case to reveal a lute, much less finely made than his own, but still serviceable. “Well yes, how else would you keep your lute safe?”

“My- Jaskier, I can’t accept this.” Geralt didn’t know all that much about the price of instruments, but it can’t have come cheap, particularly this far from Novigrad and Oxenfurt where most stringed instruments were produced. 

“Nonsense-” Jaskier thrust the lute into Geralt’s hands and he fumbled to catch it before it fell. “-you’re learning to play, you need to have your own, to practice over the Winter, or you’ll forget everything by the time we find each other again in the Spring.”

Geralt felt a pang at the thought of not seeing Jaskier for the entire Winter. Although it was a relief to know Jaskier fully intended to travel with him again in the Spring, the thought of spending months without Jaskier when he had only just started learning to appreciate him made Geralt dread the snow. 

“Jaskier, I don’t know what to say.” Geralt ran his hands over the body of the lute, the strings, the neck. The rose was much less intricately carved than the one on Jaskier’s treasured elven lute, although still, to Geralt’s eye, pleasing to look at.

Jaskier snorted, “Do you ever? Say you’ll practice for at least a little while every day, that’s all I ask.”

Geralt gave him a wry smile, “Lambert will never let me hear the end of it, but yes, I will.”

Jaskier clapped his hands together and said, “Now, since the morning is half gone already, and we’ve the money to stay for another night, don’t even bother objecting, I saw how stiffly you’re moving, how about we test out that new lute, hmm?” Without waiting for Geralt to agree, Jaskier launched into his lesson, cajoling Geralt into tuning his lute and then introducing a new song, one Geralt had only heard Jaskier playing himself over the past week. 

Over the next weeks, Jaskier began making noises about beginning to turn west, to return to Oxenfurt for the winter and Geralt put him off, citing inconsequential reasons, loathe to be parted from him before absolutely necessary. Jaskier made it clear that he knew what Geralt was doing, but did not argue. Each evening, while they cooked their food, either Jaskier or Geralt would drag out the lutes and they would spend some time playing, and it quickly became apparent that the song Jaskier was teaching him was intended for two lutes, with Geralt playing the simpler part, and Jaskier the much more complicated one. The way Jaskier would hum along, and occasionally set aside his lute to scribble in his notebook made Geralt suspect that he was also writing lyrics for it. Perhaps he was intending to find someone in Oxenfurt to perform it with him, and was using his practice with Geralt to help him perfect it. Geralt was in turns flattered and jealous. More and more, he felt as though it was _their_ song, and the thought of Jaskier performing it with someone else set him on edge. He had no cause to feel so, but no amount of reasoning would make the thought go away.

When they reached Shaerrawedd, Jaskier wasted no time wheedling the owner of the tavern into letting him perform in exchange for a discount on their room, and by the time Geralt arrived, having checked the notice board for any jobs he might be able to take, had already begun his set. Geralt pushed his way through the crowd of people who had gathered in front of Jaskier and paid for an ale, before finding a seat in a corner of the room. 

He’d barely had time to finish his mug when he heard Jaskier call over the crowd, “And for this next song, I am delighted to inform you I will be accompanied by my dear friend, Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt jerked his head up, wide eyed, and stood to leave the tavern. The audience misinterpreted, however, and began cheering and moving out of the way to let him walk to the front, where Jaskier had set himself up. 

When he reached Jaskier’s side he growled, “What are you up to, bard?”

Jaskier simply smiled at him and handed over his lute. Geralt hadn’t even seen him fetch it from amongst their other bags. “It seemed such a pity to not share your newfound skill with the world!”

Geralt glared at him, but at this point it would draw more attention to himself to refuse to play than to play one song and then leave. 

Jaskier spoke to the crowd again, and the brief pause gave Geralt time to contemplate the number of people who were watching him. Generally, that many people staring at him was a prelude to being chased out of town on some imagined slight or another, and, without the options to either fight or flee, for the first time since he was a child, Geralt felt himself freeze. 

Jaskier noticed, and without drawing attention, murmured, “Don’t worry about them. Just watch me. Pretend it’s just another practice.”

Given an excuse to openly watch Jaskier while he performed, Geralt let himself forget the crowd. Playing with Jaskier, performing with Jaskier, was exhilarating. Jaskier threw his entire self into performances, and shared that enthusiasm with his audience, and Geralt was breathless with it. He had seen Jaskier perform countless times, but never let himself get swept up in it, and had certainly never been part of it before. By the time they finished the first song, Geralt had forgotten about leaving, and stayed for the rest of Jaskier’s set, sometimes accompanying him, sometimes not, but always watching. 

Eventually, the performance came to an end, Jaskier thanked their audience, and the crowd started to disperse. Chattering away, Jaskier lead the way towards the nearest inn and booked them a room, paying extra for a bath to be brought in. Geralt trailed after, not contributing much to the conversation, which Jaskier was clearly unconcerned about. 

It took no time at all to settle into the room, stowing their bags under the bed to keep them out from under foot. Jaskier settled on the bed and began to pry his boots off. “You know, considering that was your first performance, that was stellar. I have seen quite a few students whose first performances were much, much worse, and that was after an entire semester of learning.” With his boots discarded on the floor beside him, Jaskier stretched out his legs and wriggled his toes in his socks. “You could show some of them a thing or two, honestly, about composure, if nothing else.”

“Hmm.” Geralt had no intention of getting roped into showing idiot students anything at all. 

Jaskier continued talking, as always unconcerned about carrying the conversation by himself entirely, “And I know you’ve been trying to distract me, but I really do have to head back to Oxenfurt if I want to secure a position teaching there over the Winter term. Tomorrow morning, ideally. As it is I’m going to have to hurry to make it in time.” 

Geralt thinks of his own Winter, safe in the keep in Kaer Morhen. There would be no need for watching over his shoulder for angry villagers or the Nilfgaardians, nothing but months being able to concentrate on teaching Ciri, recovering from the rest of the year, plentiful food and warm hearths in a familiar place. No cheerful banter with Jaskier, no incessant singing, no arguing over whose turn it was to climb out of their warm blankets to stoke the fire, no lute lessons. Abruptly, the prospect of spending the entire Winter without Jaskier is not just disagreeable, it’s unbearable. “Come with me. To Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier froze, looking up at Geralt with wide eyes. “I rather thought you would have wanted a break from me, to be honest. Don’t you think it would be a better plan to go our separate ways for the Winter, and not risk getting fed up with me while we’re trapped in a small keep together?”

Geralt’s mouth felt dry. He was not sure why it felt so desperately important to keep Jaskier with him, but he couldn’t not try. “I won’t get fed up with you.”

Jaskier sat very still, watching Geralt warily, “You’ve always been perfectly happy to head off without me for the Winter in the past, what’s changed?”

Geralt fumbled for an excuse, a reason that Jaskier would accept, “Nilfgaard is getting desperate to find Ciri, and you’ve made no secret of your association with me. Oxenfurt wouldn’t be safe.”

Jaskier stood slowly, looking Geralt in the eye. “Nilfgaard has yet to come anywhere near Oxenfurt, or even Redania. I’ll be fine. You needn’t worry about me.”

“But I do. I-” Geralt felt his hands begin to sweat, and couldn’t pull his eyes away from Jaskier’s. Jaskier was right. He would be fine, as he always had been, so why was Geralt suddenly so reluctant to part? Jaskier was standing closer now, just barely in arms reach, and Geralt felt himself sway forward, wanting to cross the remaining space. And. Oh. 

Geralt gave up on words. They had never been particularly helpful for him, anyway. Slowly, giving Jaskier time to pull away, Geralt stepped forward and reached out a hand towards Jaskier’s face. He could feel his heart almost racing, and saw the slightest tremor in his fingers. Gently, he brushed over Jaskier’s cheek, watching for his reaction. 

Jaskier almost seemed to be holding his breath, eyes searching Geralt’s face. Just as slowly, Geralt leaned forwards and brushed his lips over Jaskier’s, just a whisper of sensation before pulling away again. As he moved back, Jaskier swayed forwards, more fully into Geralt’s space, so that he could feel Jaskier’s heat all down his front. At the motion, Geralt couldn’t help but surge forwards again and press another kiss to Jaskier’s mouth, and then, feeling foolish and over eager, began to pull away. 

Before he could get far, Jaskier had threaded one hand around his waist, and the other into the hair at the back of his head, to keep him from leaving, and used the hand behind his head to pull Geralt down into a firmer kiss.

Geralt couldn’t help but lean into it, cataloguing every sensation, the softness of Jaskier’s lips with only the slightest hint of his teeth behind them, the tiniest scratch of the stubble that had grown over the course of the day, and Jaskier’s warm breath on his cheek. When Jaskier started to pull away, Geralt followed, reluctant to let the kiss end, and Jaskier chuckled, “Don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve wanted that since I saw you in Posada two decades ago, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

Jaskier stepped back and Geralt was faintly surprised to find that his hands had found their way around Jaskier’s shoulder and waist. Jaskier let his hand slip down to rest on his chest, creating a point of contact as he moved away, “As much as I would be delighted to continue, we do have a bath coming, and I would hate to scandalise the poor staff at this inn so much that we missed out.”

***

It seemed Jaskier had pulled back just in time, because their breathing had barely returned to normal when there was a knock at the door, and Jaskier trailed his hand down Geralt’s arm, giving his fingers a squeeze as he pulled away, before greeting the two boys carrying the first buckets of water for their bath. In truth, he needed a moment of normalcy, lest he begin to think he had tripped and hit his head on the way up the stairs earlier, and was having some sort of lovely brain trauma induced dream. He had never truly entertained the idea of Geralt returning his feelings. It seemed too remote a possibility, and even more so as the years wore on and Geralt never gave even the slightest indication of interest. 

Even with the boys in and out of their room, carrying buckets of water, Geralt was standing close beside him, arms brushing, and, once, during a brief period they were alone again, tangling their fingers together before pulling away. 

Jaskier had noticed Geralt watching him more closely of late, how could he not? But he had put it down to an interest in his craft, rather than an interest in, well, _him_. Clearly he should have been paying more attention.

In quite a short amount of time, the small bath was filled, and the door once again firmly closed. Before Jaskier could second guess anything, Geralt swooped in again, this time, after pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s mouth, burying his face in his shoulder and breathing deeply. When it became clear Geralt was content to stay there indefinitely, Jaskier patted him on the back and pointed out, “You know, the water isn’t going to stay warm forever.” 

Geralt pulled back slowly, reluctantly, and was just as sad to see him go as he seemed to be to leave. Jaskier contemplated the small bath, and, instead of turning away to give Geralt his privacy, said, with a small smile, “Let me help?”

It would hardly be the first time Jaskier had helped Geralt bathe, there had been plenty of times that he had been too injured, or too filthy, to easily clean himself, but this was something else entirely. For a moment, Jaskier thought he may have overstepped, but Geralt soon returned the smile and spread his arms slightly, as though to allow Jaskier access to every part of himself. 

Jaskier let his hands trail up Geralt’s sides, lute callouses catching on the fabric of his shirt and dragging it up slightly, before moving to the buttons fastening his shirt. It did not take long before he had undone each of the small buttons and was running his hands back down Geralt’s chest to untuck his shirt, eyes caught on Geralt’s yellow ones, both their breaths coming faster. Slowly, he lifted it, revealing Geralt’s chest, with its familiar scars and its faint dusting of hair, and when Geralt lifted his arms to let him remove the shirt entirely, he tossed it aside, not bothering to watch where it landed. Instead, he traced his fingers over the planes of muscle he had long daydreamed about being allowed to touch in this manner, but had never truly expected to have the opportunity to do. 

After a while, Geralt interrupted his exploration with an amused observation, “The water really isn’t going to stay warm forever.”

Jaskier leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder to hide his smile. “I suppose I’ll have all winter to explore, won’t I?”

“Hm.” Rather than answering properly, Geralt eased Jaskier’s doublet off his shoulders and tossed it in the same direction his shirt had disappeared to, and began working on his undershirt. 

Now bare chested, Jaskier stopped resisting the temptation to kiss Geralt, and slowly worked his way down his torso, ending on his knees and smiling cheekily up at him as he unbuttoned Geralt’s trousers. Geralt ran a shaky hand through his hair and gave a little groan when Jaskier simply encouraged him to step out of the legs of his pants and stood, reaching for the cloth. 

After dipping it into the still warm water, Jaskier ran the soft cloth over Geralt’s shoulders, so much more used to rough treatment, than all the softness he wanted to give him. 

The contrast between this bath, and the ones they had shared while Jaskier had been cursed was stark. Where before the closeness had been mortifying, now it was anticipatory, exciting. Jaskier couldn’t wait to find out what else would be different. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to add this, but you can also find me as [underwaterattribute](https://underwaterattribute.tumblr.com/) on tumblr as well.


	5. Epilogue

Geralt was not quite sure how Jaskier had persuaded him to come to Oxenfurt during their Spring festival, but he was thoroughly regretting it already. The cacophony created by large numbers of people in the streets was compounded by a large number of them being performers of one type or another, all of whom were, in Geralt’s experience, loud. Even those who were not actively attempting to gain an audience were utterly shameless about projecting their voices over those around them, and as soon as there was even a small gathering the volume rapidly became unbearable. 

In addition to the noise, the constant, erratic movements of those around him had Geralt on edge, and the vibrant colours on the performers’ clothes and pennants around him combined with the bright Spring sunlight to give him a headache. 

Jaskier had darted off with a group of old friends from his days studying nearly an hour ago, sparing Geralt the necessity of attempting to socialise with them. While Geralt was grateful to not have to try to make nice with the brightly dressed, chattering group, he would have liked to retreat to their lodgings in the meantime. Much to his frustration, Jaskier had dismissed the idea of securing a room in one of the cheaper inns around the outskirts of the city, claiming that he knew a place that would be happy to have them, in exchange for a few songs, and that the room would be much nicer than any of those in the cheap inns they usually stayed at, just you wait, Geralt, beds as soft as clouds, rooms as light and airy as a palace, and food fit for a king! Geralt just wished Jaskier had bothered to show him where they _were_ before haring off. 

Just when Geralt was preparing to secure a room himself and find Jaskier later, the man himself appeared at his elbow as though summoned. “Geralt! There you are! Let’s go get Miss Roach settled in her stable and ourselves settled in our room, shall we?” Jaskier grasped Geralt’s hand and led him through the crowd, sparing him from having to try to navigate through the throngs of people.

It had taken most of the Winter for Jaskier to lose his hesitance when reaching for Geralt, but by the time they were making their way back down the trail, he was taking full advantage of now having permission to touch Geralt whenever the whim struck. Geralt found he enjoyed the extra contact, and while he could not bring himself to be even half as expressive as the bard, he found that he enjoyed being able to reach out and touch Jaskier for no other reason than wanting to. 

Geralt begrudgingly had to admit that the accommodations were definitely better than he would have been able to secure on his own, and while the bed was not quite as soft as Jaskier’s over inflated description had indicated, it was much more comfortable than any he’d slept in since Winter, and the food really was as good as Jaskier had implied. 

Although Jaskier had tried to convince him to stay in the bed longer, Geralt’s growling stomach drove him downstairs to fetch some food, Jaskier’s voice following him as he went, “Get the bacon if there is any! I still can’t bring myself to touch porridge after how much you made me eat last Autumn.”

The innkeep was perfectly amenable to providing breakfast, as well as a tray to carry it on, and Geralt started to wonder exactly how much Jaskier had spent on their stay, and where the money had come from. 

He had still been waiting when a man who had been sitting at a table by the window called out to him, “I believe you’re a bit lost, witcher.”

The man smelled of rosin and perfumes, and was wearing fine clothes that he had gathered from Jaskier were the height of fashion, currently, and had no weapons, so Geralt felt comfortable ignoring him. 

“Are you stupid, or just mute, witcher? You are not permitted to be here.” The man had not risen from his seat, and Geralt was well practiced in determining when a belligerent loudmouth was worth paying attention to, and continued to ignore him.

Before the man could say anything further, the innkeep returned with Geralt’s tray, and he headed up upstairs, leaving him spluttering in Geralt’s wake, clearly unused to being disregarded.

Once upstairs, Geralt let Jaskier persuade him back into bed after their meal, and he forgot the obnoxious man entirely.

Near midday, Jaskier rolled out of bed and started pulling on a new outfit he must have acquired the day before, a vibrant sky blue with dark green detailing. Geralt watched from the bed, utterly relaxed, covers still carelessly tossed on the floor. Once dressed, Jaskier perched on the bed next to him and leaned down to kiss him, open mouthed and languid. “Mmm, as much as I’m enjoying the view, we really do need to both be dressed soon, or we’ll be late.”

Geralt rolled onto his back, still sprawled out, “Hm, no, I believe you will be. I see no reason to move.”

Jaskier smiled at him brightly, and reached over to the bags tucked neatly under the bed. “You’re coming too, I even got you an outfit that will be just perfect for this.” He pulled out more clothes, this one the same dark green as the edging on Jaskier’s clothes, with small details picked out at the cuffs and collar in a matching blue. Geralt also noted that the doublet was wider in the shoulders than would fit Jaskier. 

Geralt groaned, “What have you gotten me into?”

“I told you,” Jaskier said evasively, “The price of these rooms was simply a few songs!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt growled.

Jaskier tossed the clothes at Geralt while pushing his legs off the bed. “This inn is specifically set aside for entrants in the bardic competition that is being held this afternoon. Now come on, if we don’t show, we’ll have to pay the usual price for staying here, and we really can’t afford that.”

Geralt thumped his head back on the pillow and considered smothering Jaskier with it. Sure, he would regret it later, but it would be so satisfying in the moment. 

Geralt was still bad-tempered an hour later, now fully dressed in the clothes Jaskier had picked out, and carrying his lute, although still armed with several knives, over Jaskier’s strident objections. If he was going to be strong armed into this he was at least not going to be entirely defenceless. 

Jaskier was making their presence known to the organisers when the man from that morning came over, looking Geralt up and down with a curled lip. “You’re even more lost than before. You realise that simply carrying an instrument is sufficient for this, correct? Only competitors are allowed backstage. Now leave, before I have you thrown out entirely.”

Geralt tensed, more than happy to leave, but reluctant to give in to the man’s demands, or to leave Jaskier in the lurch. Fortunately, Jaskier returned before Geralt had to answer him. “Valdo. Did you finally get kicked out of Cidaris for being such a hack?”

Geralt studied the man with more interest now. He had been hearing about Jaskier’s loathing for him for almost as long as he’d known him, and wondering how much was Jaskier’s usual exaggeration, and how much was the simple truth. So far it seemed less exaggerated than many of Jaskier’s tales. 

“Julian.” Valdo’s eyes flicked over Jaskier, and he wrinkled his nose. “Still appalling taste, I see. I also believe you did not read the rules correctly. There is no accommodation for. Well. I don’t even know why you brought-” He looked at Geralt with a sneer, “that.”

“Geralt is a competitor. We’re participating in the duets.” Jaskier leaned towards Geralt, but did not rest his weight on him as he ordinarily would.

“A competitor?” Valdo scoffed. “This isn’t a country faire. Novelty won’t win you anything. You may as well enter a dog you have taught tricks to. I wouldn’t think even you would risk your reputation on vouching for a _witcher_. Not that you have much of a reputation to risk, I suppose.”

Until that moment, Geralt had simply wanted the entire ordeal over and done with, and hadn’t cared one whit how they performed in the competition, but he suddenly felt the need to prove the obnoxious twat wrong, if only to prove Jaskier’s teaching to be excellent. 

Geralt’s determination evaporated, however, by the time the organiser called them to the stage. 

Jaskier grasped both his hands, and waited for Geralt to meet his eyes. “Just watch me. We’re just playing together, like we do every evening. You can do this.” 

As had happened in Shaerrawedd, Geralt found that once he was performing, the rest of the world faded away, and he was able to focus entirely on Jaskier, getting swept up once again in the feeling of being part of his life’s vocation, the passion he poured into his work. Geralt let himself enjoy the feeling of performing a song he had become entirely familiar with since Jaskier began writing it while they camped the previous Autumn, the simpler chords he was playing complementing Jaskier’s fast, complex tune, while his tenor rose triumphantly over Geralt’s baritone, providing a complement to the rest of the music. Jaskier had been reluctant to share the lyrics he had written until he had felt more secure in his relationship with Geralt, aware of how revealing they were. It made something possessive in Geralt’s chest glad to be performing it with Jaskier in front of an audience, with part of Jaskier’s attention always on him, as it never was on one person while he was in front of a crowd. 

As they came to the end of the song and let the last notes fade away, there was a moment of silence before the crowd began cheering, some of them rising to their feet, and Geralt was brought back to reality, hit by a wall of sound so overwhelming it was all he could do not to bolt. Jaskier was grinning at him, exultant, flushed with his performance. 

Once Jaskier had thanked the audience, and had swept them off the stage, Geralt would have been more than happy to leave before they announced the winners, but Jaskier insisted they stay, claiming there were only a few more contestants after them. To his relief, Jaskier was correct, and it was only a short while before the contestants were ushered into a small hall that had been set up with tables and food while the judges deliberated. 

Geralt was left entirely flat-footed when, several times, other performers approached to compliment him on his performance, although he noted that Valdo Marx pointedly did not acknowledge his existence. 

After nearly an hour, they were called back to the stage, for the winners to be announced, Geralt shifting uncomfortably to be in the spotlight, even amongst a group as he was. He didn’t bother to listen to what the judges were saying, until Jasier tugged on his hand, dragging him towards the front of the stage, where they were waiting expectantly. Geralt had counted himself lucky to have a positive reception from the audience at all, and was uncertain what they were being called forward for. 

“Smile, we’ve placed second.” Jaskier hissed, knowing Geralt well enough that he did not need to be told that he had not been paying attention. 

Geralt looked at Jaskier incredulously. “Second?”

“Yes, and second place comes with 500 crowns prize money, so smile gratefully.”

Geralt’s eyebrows flew up. 500 crowns would last them the rest of the Season, if they were frugal, and months even if they weren’t. Suddenly, it was easier to smile on command. 

Geralt noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Valdo Marx scowling darkly at him, and Geralt gave him an obnoxious smile and waved. When the winner was announced, an older woman who was carrying a small harp, Valdo clenched his fists, and as soon as they were dismissed, stormed from the stage and did not linger for the drinks that were provided after. 

Two days later, having stayed for other performances, and for Jaskier to catch up more with his friends, only once dragging Geralt along, they loaded up Roach again, who was less than enthused to be leaving her warm stable, and headed towards the city gates. As nice as it had been to be part of Jaskier’s world for a few days, Geralt was relieved to be returning to the familiar, and was rather looking forward to being free of the city, with its noise, and smells, and crush of people. 

Jaskier walked alongside him, a bounce to his step. “I’ll have to write another song, of course, but I rather think we can do better than second place, next year.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to argue. He had all year to persuade Jaskier otherwise, but even if he didn’t, performing with Jaskier wasn’t all bad, he supposed.


End file.
